My grandmother had a garden. Not the kind with flowers. The kind with vegetables. Tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, beans. She grew everything. She started in March. She turned the soil. She planted the seeds. She watered. She weeded. She waited. By July, the garden was full. By August, she was canning. By September, her basement was lined with jars. Jars of tomatoes. Jars of pickles. Jars of beans. She gave them to everyone. Her children. Her grandchildren. Her neighbors. She gave them to people she didn't know. People who came to the door. People who needed something. She gave them a jar. She said, "From my garden." She said it like it was nothing. It was everything.
She died in the spring. March. The month she used to turn the soil. She was eighty-six. She had been gardening for seventy years. She had been canning for seventy years. She had been giving away jars for seventy years. Her basement was full. Jars from last year. Jars from the year before. Jars from years I couldn't remember. My mother didn't know what to do with them. My uncles didn't know what to do with them. I said I would take them. I took them all. A hundred jars. Maybe more. Tomatoes. Pickles. Beans. Jelly. Salsa. Things I didn't have names for. Things she had made. Things she had given. Things she had left.
I put the jars in my apartment. I live in a studio. The jars took up half of it. I lined them against the wall. I made shelves. I stacked them. My apartment became a basement. A basement full of jars. A basement full of things I couldn't eat. I couldn't open them. I couldn't eat her tomatoes. Her pickles. Her beans. I couldn't eat the last thing she made. The last thing she gave. I kept them. I kept them all.
I thought about the garden. The soil she turned. The seeds she planted. The water she carried. The weeds she pulled. The months she waited. I thought about the jars. The years of tomatoes. The years of pickles. The years of beans. The years of giving. I thought about the basement. The jars that lined the walls. The jars that were now in my apartment. The jars I couldn't open. The jars I couldn't eat. The jars I couldn't give away. Because they were the last. Because they were hers. Because if I opened them, she would be gone.
I was sitting on my floor. The jars were around me. A hundred jars. Maybe more. I was looking at them. I was thinking about my grandmother. Her hands. The dirt under her nails. The way she wiped her forehead with her sleeve. The way she said "from my garden" like it was nothing. It was everything. I opened my laptop. I didn't know why. I was looking for something. A distraction. A way to stop thinking about the jars. The garden. The hands that turned the soil. I had a bookmark I'd saved a long time ago. I don't remember saving it. I don't remember why. I clicked it. The site loaded. I looked at it for a while. I had never gambled before. Not once. My grandmother didn't gamble. She grew things. She waited. She canned. She gave. But I was sitting on my floor with a hundred jars I couldn't open. I decided to play Vavada casino games.
I deposited fifty dollars. Money I would have spent on seeds. On soil. On the things my grandmother bought in March. I told myself I'd play for an hour. I told myself I'd stop when I lost. I told myself a lot of things. I played a slot game. Something with fruit. Apples, oranges, lemons. The kind of game that looked like a garden. I bet small. A dollar a spin. I lost the first five. Down to forty-five. I lost another three. Down to forty-two. I was losing the way things lose. The way gardens lose in winter. The way seeds lose when they don't sprout. The way jars lose when they sit on shelves.
I was down to forty dollars when I hit something. Three apples. The screen flashed. The music changed. A bonus round. I didn't know what it meant. I just watched. The reels spun automatically. Numbers appeared. Forty dollars became eighty. Eighty became a hundred and sixty. A hundred and sixty became three hundred and twenty. I sat up. The jars were around me. The garden was in my head. I watched numbers climb. Three hundred and twenty became six hundred and forty. Six hundred and forty became twelve hundred and eighty. The bonus ended. My balance was twelve hundred and eighty dollars.
I stared at the screen. Twelve hundred and eighty dollars. From fifty dollars. From a game with fruit. I cashed out. Every cent. I closed the laptop. I sat on the floor. The jars were around me. I didn't move for a long time.
The money hit my account two days later. Twelve hundred and eighty dollars. I used it to buy a house. Not a house. A plot of land. A small plot. Outside the city. A plot where I could turn the soil. Where I could plant seeds. Where I could water. Where I could weed. Where I could wait. I bought the land. I bought seeds. I bought soil. I bought a shovel. I bought a rake. I bought things my grandmother had. Things she used. Things she knew.
I went to the land in March. I turned the soil. I planted the seeds. I watered. I weeded. I waited. In July, the garden was full. Tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, beans. In August, I canned. I filled jars. Jars I bought from the store. Jars that were new. Jars that had nothing in them until I filled them. In September, my basement was lined with jars. Jars of tomatoes. Jars of pickles. Jars of beans. I gave them to my mother. To my uncles. To my neighbors. To people I didn't know. People who came to the door. People who needed something. I gave them a jar. I said, "From my garden." I said it like it was nothing. It was everything.
I still have her jars. The hundred jars from her basement. They sit in my apartment. I haven't opened them. I don't know if I ever will. But I have my own jars now. Jars I made. Jars I filled. Jars I give away. I think about her when I give them. Her hands. The dirt under her nails. The way she wiped her forehead. The way she said "from my garden." I say it the same way. Like it's nothing. It's everything.
I still play sometimes. Once a month. On the nights when I'm sitting on my floor, looking at her jars. The jars I can't open. The jars I keep. I play Vavada casino games. I deposit fifty dollars. I play the fruit game. I lose most of the time. That's fine. That's what happens. But sometimes I win. Not like that night. Small wins. A hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars. I cash out immediately. I use it for seeds. For soil. For the things I need to fill my own jars. For the things I give away.
I went to her grave last week. On the anniversary of her death. I brought a jar. One of mine. Tomatoes. I put it on the grave. I said, "From my garden." I stood there for a while. I thought about her hands. The soil. The seeds. The water. The weeds. The waiting. The jars. The giving. I thought about the game. The fruit. The numbers. The win. The land I bought. The garden I grew. The jars I filled. I thought about the things we grow. The things we keep. The things we give. The things we leave. I thought about the seeds she planted. Not just in the ground. In me. The seeds that took years to sprout. The seeds that grew when I was ready. The seeds that became a garden. A garden I tend. A garden I harvest. A garden I give away. One jar at a time. One season at a time. One fruit at a time. From my garden. Like it's nothing. It's everything.