“…I am more conscious of the small, tactile observations around me. A construction-yellow-mustard lichen, no bigger than a thumbnail. The juicy crack each romaine leaf makes when pulled off the crown. The feeling of filling my lungs full, full to bursting with air, as I pray for a friend whose breath has become laboured with pneumonia. The scratch of sand against my shovel; the slinky slide of clay.”

“…Most of my morning was business, but I gladly abandoned my desk for the sunshine and this little miss. She is the cheeriest little joy, our little parrot, our climbing monkey, our apprentice gardener. She happily drowns the tenderest seedlings, moves dirt with proud industry to the surfaces her Daddy has just power washed, and somehow manages to mimic my every mannerism. She crosses her arms, her chin thrust speculatively out towards our efforts, humming and tsking her little opinions.”