It's impossible not to love that little girl. And her sweet dad. And her precious, perplexed Mama.

This took me away, and back, wondering about the things I witnessed in my home but didn't see for them for what they were, underneath.

I stopped my last work day at home, before beginning my two week run of night shift, to read this and your words have made my day.

I've worked non stop this week converting our backyard hockey rink into a plot of garden boxes. I've planted much and carefully started the squash seeds inside. They've popped up, young shoots and pale green leaves. Look at my babies I said. You're a proud Papa my wife said. Each day I think of all the work my mother did, providing a family garden the likes I've never seen again. I call her and talk about the gardening. She's excited to tell me everything. Complain about everything. I listen. There are stories everywhere. Seeds always yearning to break through the earth. I want to write them all. My wife, like Mama, on the periphery, observing, wondering, supporting because there is nothing else she can do. Losing me to the writing desk after sharing supper and a bit of tv time. And me, like you, pulled in a dozen directions but a crowd of voices.

Reading your words opens all the doors.

Thank you, Linda. For never stopping writing.