Lucy's seed

Lucy had a seed in her hand. A tiny brown seed, flat as a crumb. "It's a sunflower," said Mummy. "One day it will be as tall as you." Lucy's eyes went wide. They put the seed in a pot, in soft, soft soil. Lucy pressed it down with her finger. Poof.

"Now we water it, and we wait," said Mummy. "Wait for what?" "For it to grow." Lucy poured water from her yellow watering can: plip, plop, glug. She leaned over the pot. Nothing. Just dark, wet soil.

The next morning, Lucy ran to the window. "Mummy! Did it grow?" Mummy looked. "Not yet." Lucy looked too, her nose right in the pot. Not yet. She blew on it, fffff, just in case. Nothing.

So she put on her red boots and jumped in a puddle. Plip, splash! When she came back, she looked in the pot again. Nothing. She sighed, a big sigh that made a little lump of soil tremble.

The day after, it was raining. Plop, plop, plop on the glass. "Is it growing?" "Not yet," said Daddy, folding the washing. "But the seed is working, down under the soil. It's in the dark, nice and warm, and it's stretching very slowly." Lucy pressed her ear against the pot. She heard nothing but the rain.

That evening, before bed, she put her toy rabbit beside the pot. "You keep watch," she told him. Then she whispered, "Good night, seed."

The next morning, there was still nothing. And the one after that, nothing either. Lucy looked, blew, watered, plip, plop, glug, and every time she said, "Not yet."

Then, one morning, she tiptoed up to the pot and stopped. In the middle of the soil there was a tiny bit of green, bent like a hook. Lucy held her breath. "Mummy," she whispered, because it was so small you couldn't shout. Mummy came to see. Daddy came to see. Lucy put out one finger, very gently, and touched the green hook. It was cool and fresh. "Hello," she said.

That night, Lucy put on her pyjamas. The pot waited on the windowsill, in the moonlight. "Good night, little sprout," she said. The pot said nothing. Lucy climbed into bed, hugged her rabbit and closed her eyes. In the dark of the pot, the sprout was still stretching a little, just a little, like every night.