I met her when she was in her nineties
and when she talked about the Warsaw Ghetto
her voice got softer,
not sad exactly,
but as though
if she wasn’t careful
the memory
would break.
The last time I saw her,
she told me about the garden,
how she planted vegetable seeds
in the withered earth,
not because she expected
anything to grow,
but because she wanted the children
to have something
to hope for.
I didn’t ask
how many of those children survived.
I didn’t have to.
Today, I heard about a movement
to plant a million gardens.
On roof tops,
in backyards,
in a small pot
on a fire escape
above a busy street.
But it is not just to feed ourselves,
and our food banks.
It is an invitation
for each of us
to make the rebellious act
of planting,
not just a seed,
but a small
fierce
hope.