As I was leaving the community garden the other day, I happen to glance back and I gasped. From where I was standing on the path I could see into my neighbors’ plot, and there, on their side of the fence between our gardens, was a sweet little pumpkin. MY sweet little pumpkin.
A vine from my garden, the renegade that had saved itself from the zucchinis by leaping over the brick path, had forged ahead right through the chicken-wire fence, on its way to freedom. There, in celebration, it produced a pumpkin, perfect in every way.
I choked up, I couldn’t breath, I sputtered: “But that’s MY pumpkin!”
I have mixed feelings.
It looks so happy there, my little runaway pumpkin. It has its own platform on which to catch the fall sun, away from powdery mildew and aggressive zucchini, yet sheltered by the nearby protective sage leaves. I admit to feeling a bit rejected, but for heaven’s sake: it’s a pumpkin. Really, the vine was very clever in figuring out how to save itself and provide a better life for its offspring, though it still has one little pumpkin hanging out in the kale and cilantro patch.