The First Pot
A Small Garden, a Lifetime of Memories
Through all his years as a rancher, Ben never saw the point of potted plants. To him, a garden belonged in the ground—sprawling, rooted, free to stretch where nature intended.
Charlotte, on the other hand, had a different vision.
“I signed up for a class,” she announced one afternoon, holding up a flyer from the extension office. “Container gardening.”
Ben frowned. “Why would anyone put plants in pots when there’s a whole yard out there?”
She grinned, undeterred. “Because sometimes, things grow better when given a little structure.”
The first pot was nothing special—just a terracotta container they picked up after class. Charlotte chose a bright mix of flowers, while Ben insisted on something useful—a tomato plant. They placed it near the patio, where Charlotte could admire it from the kitchen window.
Ben was skeptical at first. He watched her fuss over the watering, adjusting its position, whispering to the leaves as if coaxing them to grow. But by midsummer, the tomato vines spilled over the edges, bright red fruit hanging like small ornaments.
One evening, as they sliced into the first ripe tomato for their salad, Charlotte nudged his elbow. “Not bad for something in a pot, huh?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. Beginner’s luck.”
But the next season, it was Ben who suggested they add another pot. Then another.
Years later, when the yard felt too big and too empty, it was the pots that remained. They lined the patio, brimming with color, still carrying her touch. And every season, without fail, he planted the same cherry tomato—because some things, once rooted, never really leave.
