Kernels and Karma

“That little sod!”

James, the kid from up the road, had snapped the stalks of corn that had been slowly growing for weeks in the little rectangular garden near the stairs. First my brothers little ride-on shoe-bike, now this. James wouldn’t be coming around again anytime soon.

Even in my five year old mind I felt that this was some sort of karma. Mrs Casey had told us that the kernels in the bucket were just for playing with there at Kindy and were not to be taken home. I heard her warning. I understood what she said. But there was something about diving my hands in and stretching my fingers out, combing through the cool sea of golden seeds. It was like something magical- and I wanted to keep that feeling forever. My cheeks burned as I carefully picked the few kernels that would be mine and secretly dropped them into the right hand pocket of my puffy, turquoise Winter coat, snapping the pocket clasp quickly before I could be found out.

Somehow my little indiscretion wound itself into a lie as I found myself explaining to Dad that these little treasures had been “given to us” at pre-school.

“You know you can plant these and it’ll grow into corn?!” and off he was down the stairs, burying the souvenirs of my magical adventure in the dirt.

I watched those plants grow from a tiny, green whisper into some very impressive stalks that were even taller than I was. But my guilty conscious prevented me from ever fully appreciating them for the miracle that they were.

As I stared at the plants- limp and broken- I couldn’t help but sense the justice in it all. I felt bad for James, really. After all, he wasn’t the only “little sod.”