In the time it took me to go to the plant store,
buy a perennial,
talk to the plant man about how to tend to my ill roses,
come home,
peel and dice sweet potatoes,
make a tray of enchiladas
and put in a load of laundry,
the turtle had dug a small hole in our front yard with her back flippers,
without looking,
and laid her eggs.
I'd watched her
as the potatoes roasted.
She had come,
as she somehow knew to do,
across the road from the pond,
and slower than anything imaginable
had dug that hole,
had deposited eggs,
and then shoveled the spring most dirt back over her children
with her feet.
Her actions slowed down the world.
She was agonizingly thorough.
She would not leave without tamping down every particle
of that sandy dirt,
without replanting every blade of grass she'd pulled,
without making sure each blade of grass stood upright
so that there would be no sign
that she'd come.
I didn't expect to stand there the length of time it took to roast sweet potatoes.
I knew they were almost done,
and that the timer would ding.
I wanted her to rush.
I wanted a turtle to hurry.
It was maddening,
like watching my mother-in-law
in turtle form
prepare to leave the house.
It's fine, it's fine.
No one cares if you don't put back that last piece of grass.
You can do it later.
Just leave it. It's good. Let's just go.
I was waiting to escort her back across the road.
She continued to sweep the dirt
back in the hole,
her clawed flippers moving
hand over hand,
tamping and patting.
I could have grown sweet potatoes faster.
Finally, she'd replaced the soil
and began the more rapid journey
back to the pond.
I stood in the road like a school crossing guard
as she waddled toward the pond,
then slipped into the water
and dog paddled her way to the deep,
then dove.
