I dig my fingers deep into the soil, and it’s soft as a new blanket.
I gather handfuls, tickling as it tumbles away from the edges of my grip.
I pat it down, and like a living body something deep beneath the surface is already warm. It pushes against my palms. Inhales, as I move them away.
And then the sapling.
The soil coats my fingertips in grit, but still the young bark feels like metal.
And when I pinch the base, there’s the curious sensation of depth and strength. Radiating through the roots and sturdy stem, through my fingers, up my arm. I feel my tree’s kindred with the earth.
I tug, and of course the soil comes too. The lightness in the pot is immediate, the emptiness of a hand with heavy bags left in the hall. It feels like plastic again. Some days it had been heavy as rock.
Lift. Suddenly the sapling is comically unbalanced, yet the wind catches the leaves like a sail and I feel the whole uncertain body strain.
New pot. New home. More soft soil. Until the tree is surrounded. I run my fingers across the diameter, to feel the rough and aged earth enrobed in velvet.
I think I feel my sapling breathe a sigh of relief.