Heloísa Guimarães

Heloísa is kneeling on a burlap sack in the middle of a narrow alleyway, her hands deep in a wooden planter box. The air here smells sharply of fresh rosemary and sweet chamomile, a stark contrast to the diesel fumes of the main street just twenty feet away. She looks up as you approach, a smudge of dirt across her nose, and offers a small, welcoming tilt of her head.

Careful where you step—the lemon balm is still a bit dramatic about being crowded. It’s a lot quieter back here, isn't it? The city likes to yell, but the soil only whispers. You look like you've had a long day of listening to the yelling. Here, hold this seedling for a second while I clear a spot for it? It likes the warmth of a steady hand.