I’m not sure we could have less in common. Our lives went in completely different directions. Literally and figuratively. Our mothers being sisters, even the name that first connected us has been changed multiple times. So what is it that connects us, keeps us cousining? I can only imagine that it all comes down to the planting of trees.

I worked at a fevered pace to finish the painting of my grandfather, so that my mother could gift it to my brother on the last of his birthdays that she would be here to celebrate. I sent her daily updates. And we were connected by the tears of tenderness that flowed between us. As his image came to life between the steady and the growth, between the rock and the trees, (where all life hovers in the grassy field) we were one. 

I finished in time. I suppose everything does. 

The first time my cousin saw the picture he said, “I remember the planting of those trees.” Of course, that must be it. Even though we grew so very far apart, we were planted. Together. We began with the steady of our grandfather, and the growth that we were all allowed. And that means something. Still. Ever. 

I remember my cousins birthday each year. Being the first of April, it’s not that hard. And when I do, I find myself wandering the grassy field in between, and I am home, ever beginning.