The Memory Sprig

I went for a jog this morning with the baby. It was still dark out. I knew we couldn't stay out long but we both enjoy the air, even when hung with a wet chill.

The herb garden is desolate in the winter. It saddens me. In late fall I walk past, slightly brush my leg against the greens and the last scents of summer cling to the air. I grew up on an eighty-three acre farm in Kentucky….yellow two story house, black shutters, windows open until nine in the evening.
I spent my childhood in the woods. My father used to wake me early in the spring and take me out on the rounds. He hunted with the boys, but with me, he passed down his own father's passion for all that grows. He taught me how to watch the mayapples, how to have patience like the delicate morels anxiously waiting to rise up from under expanded leaves. He taught me to be mindful, unselfish, to take only a few and leave the rest for the animals that depended upon the mushrooms for survival.
The trees and plants that grew in those woods received more time and patience from me in childhood than anyone or anything I've met since.

Something caught my eye when I jogged past the edge of the garden this morning, green, rising up from under the dry leaves. I pushed the baby to the edge of the garden. His cheeks were flushed, blue eyes wide. I lifted the leaves, exposing a small bundle of lemon thyme. I plucked a sprig, and carefully covered the bundle with bedding. I rubbed the tiny green leaves between my fingers and held it to the baby's nose.
"Smell, babe."
He took it from my hand and stuck his tongue to it. Lips protruding, possibly a dim recollection of summer forming in his mind, he tucked his hand under the blanket, enclosed in it, the dying sprig.