Minneapolis on the last day of May. It was a beautiful blue afternoon, and we were doing yard work. Daughter was cutting up dead branches; Wife was weeding and pruning. I was working on a particularly stubborn metaphor.
The root system of a bush, to be exact. The bush had expired over the winter, and had not come back to join its brothers. (I realized I just gendered the bushes without checking their pronouns, and beg your indulgence in these unprecedented times.) When a tree dies, it just stands there, like a person who turns into a showroom mannequin. Eventually it …
Something to Consider
If you enjoyed this article, we have a proposition for you: Join NRPLUS. Members get all of our content (including the magazine), no paywalls or content meters, an advertising-minimal experience, and unique access to our writers and editors (through conference calls, social media groups, and more). And importantly, NRPLUS members help keep NR going.