A September Constellation

I didn't notice the scratch on my right arm till later.

This was my second day in the garden staining our new fence after we let it dry for a year, and I was taking my time under a glorious September sun.

The huge elephant ear leaf jostled in the wind, singing, and tapped me on my shoulder. 

The tap was heavy as if a friend I hadn't seen in five years snuck up on me and poked me purposefully to tease me.

I looked to my right and noticed the blood-red scratch on my arm.

Did the rose bush prick me earlier when I was staining the fence in that tight corner?

That was an hour ago, and not a drop of blood had run out of the thin, jagged streak on my forearm. 

The elephant ear tapped me again.

This time I turned to my left, and I saw a milkweed seed bouncing up my shoulder like quarter notes climbing a musical scale.

This giant in our garden tapped me a third time, and another milkweed seed bounced off my shoulder.

No, rather, the seed and its white, fanning parachute seemed to float out of my shoulder.

I looked closer, and I saw a constellation in its silky white threads.

We are children of the stars: I've carried that belief, that tenet, for decades, and today the elephant ear, the rose bush, and the milkweed seed are reminding me we are siblings in this garden, even when one of us accidentally cuts the other or even when one of us crowds the other.

Hydrogen, helium, lithium, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus.

There isn't any split in this family; there isn't a plant kingdom, and there isn't an animal kingdom. We are kin.

My heart is flush from this realization, tingling, with possibilities.

I haven't been here sixty-four years; the elephant ear tells me that we, that I, have been here beyond fourteen billion years.

We are beyond ancient, beyond memory, beyond knowledge, beyond the word, beyond the universe, beyond the beginning.

But we are not side by side, we are not standing together.

We are eternally connected, eternally bound, eternally bouncing off each other, and eternally scratching each other. We are kin.

We are kin, whether we are working in the garden or singing in the garden or bleeding in the garden.