I have love for the many months behind us: blurred and blended into a canvas of oils. the blues and the greens, even the sickly yellows. I love it as I love you even as I could not remember it all; even as it writes itself anew in recall. even as I did not yet know what we would learn, and what these memories would mean. I have love for the tears and smiles yet to be in front of us the saplings growing in the water spilled soil. See? I am feeding and watering it. My hands are dirty, and one of my nails have split. I am still learning the difference between flowers and weeds. And that maybe a weed is not a weed except where it has been unwelcomely placed. The sun is hot and I am sticky with sweat. I breathe as I sit in the work: A project ever growing unfinished.