I think I’ll plant a flowering tree in the yard this year. I’ll place her by the roses, where the sun shines just right from afternoon til dusk. I imagine having something alive and blooming next spring would be nice. And by nice, I mean biting into a ripe strawberry, splitting seeded skin, its flavor bursting on your tongue. By nice, I mean therapy that cracks us wide open, an untangling of hope from the knotted chain of worry. The kind of shaking loose that shows up as first flecks of color in a gray Giver’s world. Magenta and cobalt and violet.
Breathtaking. Thank you for every word of this.