A friend leaves a dozen eggs and a stick on our back porch. She instructs my daughter to put that stick in water.
Doubtfully, my daughter sets the unassuming brown branch in a glass of water on our kitchen table. Really? she asks me.
I tell her it’s a twig from a Daphne bush she’s walked by countless times. When it blooms in that water, you’ll be amazed. I promise her this.
Here’s Adrienne Rich’s poetry for the soul, forwarded from my father.
I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woodsmeeting the unmarked strip of light—ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.