The Smallest Seed

"It's so small," said Elsie, holding the seed up to the light. "Are you sure it's a seed?"

"I'm sure," said Grandpa. "It's a sunflower seed. Put it in the pot, and be patient."

Elsie wanted one thing. She wanted a sunflower taller than the garden gate, with a face like the sun. She pressed the seed into the soil with her thumb and covered it up. Then she sat down beside the pot.

She waited. Nothing happened.

"Grow, seed," she said. "Grow, grow, grow."

Nothing. A beetle walked past. It did not care about seeds at all. It was only going home.

Elsie fetched the watering can and gave the soil a big drink. Glug, glug, glug! Too big. The pot filled up like a puddle, and the soil floated away in a brown swirl.

"Oh no," said Elsie. "My seed!"

She scooped it all back in. She patted it flat. She waited again. Still nothing.

"Grow, seed," she whispered. "Grow, grow, grow."

Elsie frowned. Then she tried something different. She lay down on the grass and put her ear against the cool side of the pot, as if she were listening at a door.

It was very quiet. She heard the wind. She heard the beetle's tiny feet. And she noticed something else, too. The soil was dark and damp, and it smelled like rain. It was cosy in there. Nobody was in a hurry.

"Oh," said Elsie softly. "You're not stuck. You're sleeping."

She stopped saying grow. She sat very still instead. She sang the seed a small song, and the song went round and round, quiet as a blanket.

"Sleep, little seed, in your warm dark bed."

The sun slid behind the gate. The wind went soft. Elsie's eyes grew heavy, and she rested her cheek on the pot.

Under her ear, the soil gave a tiny crackle, like a biscuit being broken in half.

Elsie held her breath. She did not move at all. The pot stayed warm against her cheek, and the song kept going, very low, in the dusk.