We went camping over the long weekend. Camping is another thing that reminds me of family.
(on our way into Monterey, Chris cleared a fallen branch from the road).
Lately I have been thinking about the specific relationships I have with the family members who come before and after me. I think about the personality traits, beliefs, and traditions we share, and the impact we have on each other. Part of that thought process includes the poem below, which reminds me of my parents and grandparents, and the gardens I hope to grow with my family when we move out of our studio apartment.
britt
Lonely Harvest
by Margaret S. Mullins
As a child, my father helped me dig
a square of dense red clay, marked off rows
where zinnias would grow,
and radishes and tender spinach leaves.
He'd stand with me each night
as daylight drained away
to talk about our crops leaning on his hoe
as I would practice leaning so on mine.
Years later now in my big garden plot,
the soggy remnant stems of plants
flopped over several months ago,
the ground is so cold, the berries gone,
the stakes like hungry sentries
stand guarding empty graves. And still
I hear his voice asking what I think
would best be planted once the weather warms.
