The seeds I found in my mother's house after she died last May are just the shape I long to see. She collected seeds in old envelopes, marked them, and hoped for a new spring.
Part of me doesn't want to plant these seeds because I want to keep everything as it is. Cracking open the envelope forces me to let go of old shapes, ones I don't want to let go of--my mother's hands, her looping cursive, her dream of once saving these for another garden, another spring--but I know I need to plant these seeds because they hold her shape too.
She may be hidden from me physically, but not today. Slowly, I begin to find a balance between her and me.