Where The Zinnias Grow

The first 60 degree day of September called for a Sunday morning walk in the woods with my mini-me, who stands no taller than a hemlock sapling. The autumnal colors are starting to seep in. Watching the little eyes take it all in and encounter the world around them is paramount to anything else in this life. I handed her that pinecone and she held it in her tiny hand the entire time we were there. 


Her heart and mine are the same, delighted by the wild forests and tamed flower gardens all the same. She has a ritual to which she is a slave to every time we return home from somewhere. When we pull in the driveway she repeats the word home several times. Then once she gets down from the truck she runs to where the zinnias grow and scrutinously chooses one to pluck. She holds it ever so daintily in her tiny fingers and presses it against those darling pink lips and button nose and takes the deepest breath in as she smells the flower.

Then she brings the flower inside and plucks the petals off one-by-one. And I find those little petals strewn about and pick them up off the floor and let her continue because I just adore that it is her special thing. Forever our special thing. And I will forever plant zinnias in the garden for her and I, and when I am older and more grey hairs have taken over I will still remember these moments forever fondly and pull them from the sanctuary in my heart where I store all sorts of special Edyn moments.


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