The depth of these roots

My mother still talks of bushels and acres. She and Dad moved from Chicago to central Illinois in the 1970s, coaxed by my brother who was starting a family and a career there. They bought a small plot they generously called a farm and immersed themselves in the language of feed stores and grain elevators.

It was here that I learned how much in common we humans have with plants.

While I moved on, they stayed put and marked the seasons from the back porch in the country. In the passage of 30 years, things change, of course. My brother’s wife died of cancer. My father passed away. A baby was lost. And a bit of soil was washed away.

But my brother’s children are having children of their own, now, and whenever I visit I can’t help but notice how strong that branch of the family is. I know it owes its strength to the depth of its roots. All in one place.

I hold to be true that one chooses one’s own fate, and choices are not to be regretted. But here as I watch the rain and ponder these things on the thin Kansas plain, I, the windblown son, feel the pang of thirst. 

— 30 —