sunday garden

sunlight played around on the walls of the kitchen
Mom moved from the stove to the sink to the table, and buzzed about with thoughts and plans floating around her head

the grandkids’ shrieks echoed off of the ceiling
the house was alive that day with family

Dad was outside tending to the tomatoes
(they had just started to blush their orangey-earthy-red ripeness)
he moved through the rows of plants with his head down,
scanning for weeds and unwanted pests

THEN, a dazzling and sharp burst of light
from underneath the shade of soil-dusted leaves

Dad hunched down to peer in closer,
then carefully squatted down to pick up the piece of brilliant rock

he smelled the thick smells of dirt and growth,
fertilizer and life as he gingerly picked up the gleaming, glittery gem

it had been sitting under the eggplants:
their deep aubergine hue contrasting with the object’s bright white sparkle
their broad leaves reaching for warmth and sun,
they ignored what had been resting just underneath, in their shadow

the palm-sized rock was heavy
rough edges that glinted in the daylight

even after centuries of hiding
even after ages of being deep deep deep in the safe and silent ground
even after being tucked away for safety and secret keeping
the edges still caught the sun’s rays and reflected that light back
an announcement:
i’m still here
don’t forget
i’m here
i was
i am