worth my salt

Last spring a box turtle came and laid eggs in a pile of compost which has been delivered in a heap on the driveway. My mother immediately fenced off the compost so nothing could get to the eggs, and left them undisturbed.

Unfortunately they never hatched in the fall. Today she was moving the compost into the garden, finally, and uncovered 11 eggs. Most of them had been punctured in some way and insects or other creates had gotten inside to eat. I found one which was still intact, solid, and peeled away the soft shell to reveal this perfectly preserved baby. It was incredible. 18 months in the egg and it didn’t smell at all. Goes to show what an impressive barrier eggs are to the outside world. A sterile environment. I don’t know why the turtles died. Obviously they were very far along in development. This little guy had his shell, claws on his feet, eyes, tail, a little mouth, and was still attached to what I assume is the placenta, or whatever the turtle equivalent is.

Put this picture of my tiny self next to my bed recently. It’s a gentle, daily reminder that I am who I always have been.

I used to write a lot of love poetry. It was sweet and good and was a satisfying way to keep my heart soft and my eyes open to the beauty that surrounded me.

I’d like to get back to it. I need some heart-softening and eye-opening.

Today I found the 1979 Soil Survey of Ulster County on the free book shelf at the post office. (The post office of the town with no stoplights, where all the children’s heights are marked on the wall and you can watch them grow and grow as you recycle your junk mail.) And that book,that I received from a stranger, was a more romantic gift  than you ever gave to me. 

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