I curiously watched my grandmother open the yellowing paper packet with painstaking care. When she untied the knots, a cluster of strange, shriveled off-white orbs fell into her hands. These seeds were all that remained of the life she had left behind in Shandong Province, China. She had slipped them into her silk shirt when leaving, hoping to grow them in foreign soil.
In America, we first lived in a tiny apartment on a busy street, then a condo on the thirteenth floor. Five years passed, and it seemed she would never plant the seeds. Still, she kept them safe.
When I was six, we moved to the first floor of a three-family house. There was no lawn, only a narrow patch of dirt with weeds. It was there my grandmother took out her seeds.
“They won’t grow,” my father said.
“It’s too much work,” my mother said.
My grandmother smiled. She placed the seeds in water and cleared the weed-filled patch. I watched the shriveled orbs grow plump.
Each day after school, I rushed to check the patch. "Chinese cucumbers," my grandmother said. I wondered how they differed from American ones but didn't ask.
At first, nothing grew. I feared the seeds were dead or that Chinese cucumbers couldn't grow in American soil.
Then one day, a sprout appeared, then two, then four. My grandmother smiled like a proud mother. The plants grew prolifically; vines seemed to lengthen before my eyes. I reported each new leaf and bright yellow flower to my parents.
When the last flowers withered, little cucumbers appeared. Crisp and tender, they were the most delicious vegetable I'd ever tasted.
I believed then in the seeds' magic power. Even 8,000 miles from home, they bloomed with intensity and determination. I vowed to be like those Chinese cucumbers: no matter how far life takes me from home, I will embrace the world and thrive on foreign soil.