What Ferments

I started the pickles three weeks ago,

filled the jar with brine,

buried the cucumbers in salt and time,

and then I let it go.

Just left it in the fridge,

closed the door,

forgot about it on the shelf

while the work began

without me.

The jar became cloudy,

small bubbles pressed against the glass,

the brine darker than when I started,

alive and working,

doing its own thing

while I went about doing mine.

Today I opened it

and the smell hit—

sharp and alive,

the smell of something

becoming itself,

the smell of patience

and time and all the small

invisible labor

of bacteria and salt

and everything

that works

when you're not

watching.

The bubbles were still there,

small and numerous,

tiny proof

that something

was happening

inside the jar,

that I could let go

and it would still

transform,

still become

exactly what it was supposed to be

without my constant

attention,

without my hands,

without my fear

that I was doing it wrong.

I closed the jar again.

Put it back on the shelf.

Closed the fridge door.

The fermentation keeps happening.

The bubbles keep rising.

The brine keeps darkening.

And I keep forgetting

about it,

which is exactly

the point,

which is exactly

what it needs—

this small surrender,

this letting go,

this trust

that something

can become itself

without me

watching,

without me

trying to fix

what isn't broken.

The pickles will be ready

when they're ready.

And either way,

they'll be exactly

what they're supposed to be.