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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Christina Fitzpatrick teaches at Brooklyn College and is the author of the short-story collection Where We Lived (Harper Perennial) and the novel What’s the Girl Worth? (HarperCollins). She never got her driver’s license, for which some of her friends belittle her, but she prefers to believe she’s saving lives. (“I have poor hand-eye coordination and space out frequently.”) She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
“I can’t come to New York,” Edith says over the phone to her only living daughter. She is squeezing a sponge that doesn’t need to be squeezed, standing at her kitchen sink, where a window looks out at skeletal tree branches. It is early April, and the trees of Boston have weathered much this winter: blizzards that smothered cars, wind that twisted metal, hail that punched through glass.