planting

It's autumn now, one of the briefest of seasons here in Minnesota, and she is picking little clover sprays from the sidewalk, asking if she can plant them in old jam jars.  She tells me we can water these sprouts, that they will live and grow.  I have to tell her that because they have lost their roots, this is it for them.

We are coming up on the one year anniversary of her grandfather's passing, and I'm still explaining cycles to her.  Last spring, it was water cycles:  here, the rain comes down, the sun comes out, the water rises to the clouds.  She tells stories of streams and crayfish.  I tell her how it's all moving.  Autumn comes, and we watch the leaves fall, and I tell her about hibernation.   

Is Grandpa hibernating?  No, we don't quite know where he is, what he is doing.  Is Grandpa gone?  No, my love.  Because we carry him in our hearts.  Our little, rooted, fierce, fierce hearts.