Boxwood

Wander into a boxwood alley on a chilly day and the skin warms.

For me, the mind warms, too, in memory.

When we visited my maternal grandparents in Virginia, I escaped under the giant boxwood near the side porch where the adults gathered to talk. I sat cross-legged under the low branches, inhaling the lemony scent of small leaves woven together like a screen. I imagined Borrowers-like creatures lived among the limbs and roots, and I wanted to become one of them. Outside the shade, my mother's and her parents' rounded Virginia vowels rode toward me in a low vibration like a joyful wave.

I could have stayed there happily, hidden under the boxwood, just as I wish I had been able to stay today under this canopy today.