There was heaviness over the day, thinking about Iris’s friend, the news in Israel that so profoundly affected friends of ours here.

Edith and I decided to make a wreath, and we hiked around the yard in the sunshine, the wind playing with the tops of dried grasses, seemingly asking to be picked for our arrangement. I forget to play outside, and I realized that as Edith rambled off plants she’s spotted here or there, what colors certain leaves turn in the fall, the scent of something she’s picked for a “cake” at her mud “bakery.”

Before we went inside, we found a plastic toy beneath a tree. It must have been out there four years or more. I left it on the stairs for Iris and she knew why when she came home. It had been a gift, several birthdays ago, from Devyn, her friend who passed. She sent it to us.