Earthly Delight

With Ilena gone, I revert to absurdity. Lugging my sprouting kit around the house like a knee-bruised child, finding just the right spot of sun or warmth to coax the mung's white fruits out from their olive casings. I carry it into the bathroom with me and read Carey's Illywhacker aloud, my breath fogging the bright green plastic. At room temperature and with a lot of light, the directions read, the seeds will germinate visibly. See me, wrapped in Ilena's fuzzy bathrobe, on all fours on the bathroom tile, watching my charges as intently as a child watches a seething anthill.