I emerge from the box store, smelling of box store. I clutch my empty plastic bag, my return receipt, my flip phone, my keys. I have a great outfit on. I have no pockets.
I see my husband and child pull our truck into a distant parking spot. Far away from me. They tumble out of the truck and run for the edge of the parking lot. They jump the fence. They wave wildly.
Clutching my kites of plastic and paper that want to take to sky on parking lot wind, I walk to them.
Serviceberries! I saw the robins. I saw the red fruit.
I toss my detritus into the truck. I shimmy my skirt up and wheel over the fence.
Serviceberries! Juneberries! Sarvis! Amelanchier! So good, and thus known by so many names! This is good practice! We eat well!
"Maybe smokers don't know about Serviceberry." That's such an interesting thing to say. We move through the planted trees and find sweet cherries. Sweet cherries!
Some native people gave tobacco when they harvested plants. I feel, for many reasons, that this is a tradition I could awkwardly take on. I feel unsure. I would need a helper, a guide, and practice to offer this gift.
I plan to return with a gift, a gift that I know how to give, a gift that I think would be well-received. We will return with native seeds. We will descend into the man-made detention basin and scatter the seeds of other wild plants as companions for the Cattails, Robins and Serviceberries.