Ben’s Pumpkin Seed Vanishes Beyond the Porch Light

The Seed That Went Missing

Ben’s pumpkin seed shot off the table like a tiny rocket.

“Oh, beans!” he said.

His sister, June, peered under the garden table. “Not beans. Pumpkin.”

Usually, Ben would have laughed. Not tonight.

Beyond the porch light, the garden looked much too dark. The bean poles had long, thin legs. A coat on a chair looked like somebody sitting.

Ben pulled his sleeves over his hands.

Inside, Thanksgiving plates clinked. Warm smells of bread and sweet potatoes drifted through the open door.

But June had wanted one more thing before pie.

“Let’s plant our thank-you seed,” she had said.

They had saved it from the pumpkin they baked. June had brought a pot. Ben had brought a spoon.

The plan was simple. Plant it outside. Keep it warm indoors. Watch for green.

Now the seed was gone.

“We can find it,” June said. “Shine your light down.”

Ben gripped his little torch. A leaf scraped the path.

He jerked the beam toward it.

“This is a silly game,” he snapped. “And a silly seed.”

June stopped looking.

“I saved the biggest one for you.”

She set the empty pot down and went inside.

Ben stared at the spoon. It still held a small mound of dirt.

He wished he could scoop his words back up, too.

A Small, Brave Sorry

Ben turned his wheelchair toward the kitchen door.

June stood just inside, pulling at her sweater cuff.

“June?”

She looked at his shoes.

“The seed isn’t silly,” he said. “I’m sorry I said that.”

“You said the game was silly, too.”

“I’m sorry for that, too.”

He rubbed one thumb along his wheel rim.

“The dark made everything look strange. I wanted to go inside.”

June looked past him at the garden.

“Even the coat?” she asked.

“Especially the coat.”

June took it off the chair.

“There. Now it’s just a chair with cold shoulders.”

A laugh popped out of Ben.

“Will you help me look?” he asked.

“Yes. But let’s get your hat.”

They returned together, with warm ears and one torch.

Ben rolled along the wide, smooth garden path. June walked beside him.

“There’s a giant thing!” Ben whispered.

June lifted the light.

It was the watering can.

“Very thirsty giant,” she said.

They checked beneath the table. Dirt crumbs. A twig. No seed.

Ben held the torch lower. Its light skimmed the path.

Something small made a long shadow.

“Wait,” he said.

Near his front wheel lay a pale, flat shape.

“Our seed!”

June crouched and picked it up.

Ben held out his palm. She placed it there.

A Pot Full of Thanks

The seed felt smooth and cool against Ben’s skin.

“Sorry for calling you silly,” he whispered.

“Does the spoon get a sorry?” June asked.

“The spoon behaved very well.”

He set his wheel brakes beside the low table. June filled the pot with soft, dark soil.

Ben poked a hole with one finger.

“Good bed,” he said.

He tucked in the seed. June added a little water.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Somewhere in the garden, a leaf rustled.

Ben’s hand stopped.

“Still a leaf,” June said softly.

“Still don’t love that noise.”

“Me neither. It sounds like someone eating toast.”

Ben listened again.

It did.

He tipped his head back. Above the bare bean poles, stars dotted the sky.

“I didn’t see those before.”

“Too busy watching the coat?”

“It was a very suspicious coat.”

June giggled.

Ben rested the pot on his lap.

“I’m thankful you came back.”

June brushed soil from his sleeve. “I’m thankful you asked.”

“Pie!” Dad called from the doorway.

Ben looked once more at the stars.

“Come on, seed. You can sleep by my window.”

He rolled toward the warm kitchen, with June beside him.

Then he stopped.

“Dad? Can we eat our pie out here?”

The stars were worth another look.