I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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Vincent Mowrey takes long trips in his beloved van, Ol’ Betsy, between Ojai, California, where he lives, and Columbus, Ohio, where he was born.
The scar in the turf in front of her headstone has long since healed. Her death date was blank at her funeral, reflecting our disbelief. It now reads, Sept. 11, 2010. Beside that is another blank for my father.