My father stems from a long line of green thumbs. Dirty- fingered men skilled at burial and denial. Men with hands gentle enough to plant, firm enough to dig, tender enough to prune, sturdy enough to pack earth around the necks of buds. It is a calculated craft to bury seeds beneath the earth at the proper depth, to examine the soil and extract weeds from the root, to create life and food with bare hands. This is how he learned to parent. Push seeds down beneath the surface, drown them in water; forget them. Suffocate with callused hands and expect the sun to reach the shadowed places he hid them.