Many of us who aren’t farmers or gardeners still have some element of farm nostalgia in our family past, real or imagined: a secret longing for some connection to a life where a rooster crows in the yard.
― Barbara Kingsolver, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
Earlier this week, Olive and I shuffled through our garden paths pruning broccoli to roast with our dinner. At first, I watched her from a distance, giddily finding these little treasures to put in her white garden basket — such a simple pleasure for the both of us, really. “Come pick some, mom!” she calls to me, and I do, also straining to hear what Blythe and Liam are discussing with Mark around the fire pit. Their words are too far. There’s no fire tonight. They don’t seem to mind though. Instead of scooting closer to their conversation, I stop to watch Burke — my introvert — swinging alone in the distance on the tire swing. The trees above me still hang with Winter’s barrenness, and for a moment as the sun rests on the neighbor’s roofline, time pauses. Is this not the simplicity I have yearned for, the secret, nostalgic longing Kingsolver describes? Maybe. Either way, I want to remember this.