Back in the Bay Area, back in the house where I grew up, back in the backyard where I played as a child.
I know, every time I come back, I do posts about the backyard. I love the backyard.
My mom, who just turned 95, catching some rays.
Crows in the top of the redwood tree across the street, looking enviously into the backyard.
It isn’t the biggest backyard there ever was.
But it seemed huge when I was little. Endless summer days, playing with my brothers or my best friends.
The flowers are different now. New things have been planted over the years.
But it is a timeless place.
My father’s ashes are scattered back here. He grows in the flowers and trees.
There are little secluded spots of dappled sun and shade.
Places, like under the spreading canopy of the old plum tree, where you can go to be alone.
Honeysuckle and sunshine.
Shades of color, shades of the past.
The clean, pure innocence of youth.
My kids also played here when they were little. Now, they come back and plant new flowers.