The Inheritance

Before my hands touched this soil,

it already knew my name.

It knew the women who came before me-

dresses dusted red with clay,

hand smelling of mint and onions,

voices rising in the distance

like a hymn carried on warm wind.

They planted more than food here.

They planted survival.

Every row held a story-

butter beans stubbornly climb towards heaven,

okra standing tall like watchful elders,

sweet potatoes sleeping quietly beneath the dirt

waiting for the right hands to uncover them.

My grandmother used to say

the land listens.

So they spoke carefully to it.

Thankful, when the rain came.

Patience, when the sun stayed too long.

Faith, when the harvest took its time.

And now it’s my turn.

I kneel where their shadows once rested,

press my palms into the same forgiving soil,

and feel the steady pulse of something older than a memory.

Legacy is not loud.

It is quiet as seeds.

It is women who rise before the sun,

women who feed whole families from small gardens,

women who understand that rest

is part of the growing.

So, I sit on the porch when the evening settles,

watching the land release the day.

And somewhere beneath my feet

the roots are still working-

still holding the line,

still whispering up through the soil:

You come from women who know how to grow life even in hard ground.