page 6
Luke's been particularly sad lately, and it's hard to be sure of why. I doubt he even knows. I think it's just a time in his life when tears seem most appropriate and laughing is some kind of foreign language. And I often see him picking the wild flowers that grow in his yard, as if he's choosing some souvenir of his emotion to tie up in a colorful ribbon, and then, realizing that each one is the same, throw them down upon the ground from which they came; because the flower he really wants was picked long ago and won't ever grow again.