Tomorrow Emily turns sixteen.
She is the sun around which my pale planet spins right now. I am some absent-minded gardener, puttering, trying to weed without pulling out the sunflowers or the bachelor’s buttons or the forget-me-nots. But I am a poor servant to the garden,
and like as not will yank out a rose instead of a thistle.
As if my puttering matters.
There is a grander plan in play.
I am grateful to be permitted my small audience.
I believe in love’s power to redeem.
I will not quit it.