Apples, onions, children, and a bucket of dahlias. My worries came home with us, too. As I approach forty-six, a harvest afternoon and the words of Gwendolyn Brooks bring me back to the question of flourishing: what we gather, what we give one another, and what keeps opening in an imperfect world.
We bring flowers to one another knowing they will fade, and we plant gardens that may outlast us. Both gestures carry something of the same wish: that there should be beauty in someone’s days, that something we have tended might go on giving pleasure beyond the time we have with it.
