By Cale Bain

Morton has his trusty magnifying glass and his faithful trowel and was off outside, to set to work in the back garden. Somehow, before he’d even stepped of the verandah, his knees were dirty and he had a clump of grass in his shoelaces. He needed to find the perfect spot. Yesterday it was under Mom’s petunias.

Morton thought, she wasn’t happy with that I should move on maybe to near the short pine bush yes that’s perfect short pine bush’s perfect there’ll be tons under there because the birds are always there yes the short pine careful of the needles at the short pine bush got my trowel now dig.

Everything stopped for Morton when he was digging. There was no sun, there was no radio, there was no breeze, there was only the knowledge of what he knew was there. Not anticipation or even expectation. Knowing.

The root was only a detour on his trip to the mother lode. A quick examination to see if there were any worm holes no there aren’t continue digging.

Clay.

You know when you’re reading the encyclopaedia and they get it wrong? This was how Morton felt. That and sorry. Not for himself, mind. Nope, not himself. Because he was to have another day in the garden tomorrow. And tomorrow would the real mother lode. No, he felt sorry for his magnifying glass. He brought it all the way outside, built up its hopes that today, it was going to harness the power of the sun. Luckily he never took it out of Gran’s protective leather case, but it would’ve known something was up. It knew it wasn’t in the desk drawer anymore and magnifying glasses aren’t stupid.

Tomorrow, magnifying glass. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will dig and we will find ants and beetles and an old Barbie doll of Cynthia and maybe the Tonka truck I lost last November before the rain storm that got the basement all wet when we had no electricity and Mom had to light the candles and I had good Spaghetti-Os for dinner and Cynthia read by her flashlight which she does anyways so that’s not that special but she didn’t have a choice so maybe it was.

Morton saw his bike and dropped the trowel and magnifying glass in the dirt.

Yes, boy. On the morrow. Quite, thought the magnifying glass.

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