I see them in the garden, bits of broken fencing in their hands, dirt crusted up underneath their nails. They’re red-faced and sweaty, and oblivious to the late hour. Meanwhile, dinner rolls and boils on the stove. It’s time to shut this day down.
I watch them quiet there in the kitchen, and it’s clear, they are utterly lost. they build and work together, I see one running for more water, another pushes the Tonka truck over with clay in the bed. They scoop ad smooth and dampen and press, together–without squawk or fuss. This is rare, a moment to imbed deep in the folds of my brain.
And my heart.
It doesn’t look like much, just a bunch of broken sticks strung together with old garden twine and clay, but I see something.
“What are you making?” I finally ask them. I’ve left the stove and come out among them with my camera to see this up close.
“It’s a fence” the oldest one assures me. He’s proud of their labor.
The girls circle around me, and my middle-man quietly steps aside. He’s always stepping aside–I urge him back into the frame.
I can smell the summer on these kids, the earth smudged across noses and up legs, streaked across sweaty foreheads and the backs of their arms.
It looked like trash to me, all of those broken wood pieces. They found treasure and created something out of nothing.
I saw all that was broken–they saw what it could become.
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