My daughter picks at dirt on the cuff on her jeans, troubled by this, which interests me. She’s a remarkably easy and even-tempered girl, and I sometimes wonder at her own and distinctive understanding of the world’s order.
In my bare root order, I have a handful of what seem to be sticks with filigreed root balls. Walking behind our garden in the damp April evening, she asks me if I’ll still live here when these sticks become trees.
I’m planting for the property, I answer. That answer suffices for her. She stands with me, as we envision stick widening into trunk, twig fattening into branch.
9 thoughts on “Sticks and Girl”
A profound thinker, your gal. As is the answer you give her with your usual wise grace.
What a nice compliment!
Lovely and wise. Both of you.
Best wishes on this Sunday to you….
So wonderful to witness a child who ponders her life and her surroundings. What a blessing.
She really is a blessing! And fun!
Oh, thank you! 🙂
Your post reminded me of something that just sits quietly in the background. Time has a way of deceiving us, the growth of trees I’ve planted makes the passage clearer to me than a number in my mind.