“Because it’s
true: more than the highlights, the bright events, it was in the small and the
daily where she’d found life. The hundreds of times she’d dug in the soil of
her garden, each time the satisfying chew of spade through soil, so often that
this action, the pressure and release and rich dirt smell, delineated the
warmth she’d found in that house in the cherry orchard. Or this: every day they
woke in the same place, her husband waking her up with a cup of coffee, the
cream still swirling into the black. Almost unremarked upon, this kindness. He
would kiss her on the crown of her head before leaving, and she’d feel
something in her rising through her body to meet him...”
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