An apricot seed tells the story of my lineage

I taste freedom when I lick my lips,
savoring ripe juices from the brightly colored
freshly-picked apricots I cradle in the fabric of my skirt.

Barefoot, I walk through the expansive sun-soaked orchard
and bend over to pick up a dried-up seed.

Tracing its hard edges with my calloused fingertips,
I’m reminded of ancient recipes, textures, and storylines
written into their hard crevices
from thousands of years before.

I turn the seed over in my hand,
extracting memories with dirt-covered fingers,
an image of sweat dripping down a mother’s face
as she rips plants from mud one by one,
the smell of earth and overripe fruit
cooking in the hot desert sun.

I trace the generations of maternal labor
and careful preservation that sustains
my entire lineage through this one tiny seed.

Now it’s my turn to harvest,
and soon it will be time to sow
another textured story
a labor of love and sweet survival
into the solid crevices
of the apricot seed.