I think I’ll plant a flowering tree in the yard this year. I’ll place her by the roses, where the sun shines just right from afternoon til dusk. I imagine having something alive and blooming next spring would be nice. And by nice, I mean biting into a ripe strawberry, splitting seeded skin, its flavor bursting on your tongue. By nice, I mean therapy that cracks us wide open, an untangling of hope from the knotted chain of worry. The kind of shaking loose that shows up as first flecks of…
