My Story
I can tell you the story of nearly every tree and plant in my yard. I know from whence they came and when. I remember their struggles with heat and no water, with cold and no sun. I’ve covered them, watered them, trimmed them, and tended the dirt at their feet. I even know about the strangers who came in the bowels of birds or the mouths of squirrels. It’s a long running, flowering movie.
I wonder sometimes what will happen when I’m gone. What will a stranger see? Will they care that the abundant scarlet sage started with a single plant I dug up from beneath a tree? Will they know to look for the tiny blooms of the Barbados Cherry? Will they see unkempt wildness, or flowering natives? Will they care that my son grew the sandpaper from seed as he did with the persimmon? Will they kill the plants to make room for grass and tidiness?
But I suspect that even if they knew the stories they’d likely not care because they’d be telling their own story and this would simply be one more chapter in a different tale. I imagine the oaks we planted would make it through e.g., the Chinquapin, Lacey, and Burr as well as the Mountain Laurels and the Mesquite. But everything else would be up for grabs. And that’s okay, because for now, they’re still my story, and I have a few more chapters to add and seasons to endure.