Field Notes

My life is made of plants: lupins and birches, lilacs and maple trees, an endless text book where under every latin name I could write a story, perhaps small and commonplace like a sprout of purslane, and among those hearty green sprouts, there would be rare ladyslippers of happenings—magical and protected. I sift through my memories like walking through old forests, damp and mystical, marked by the voice of my father or grandfather pointing out every few meters some shaggy bark of a hickory or a bright orange fungi nestled in the undergrowth.