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.
A child brings his mother cowslips. In the middle of a struggle over authorship, a small gift becomes a witness to what is rooted, what is living, and what remains one’s own.
