The entire world seems to be glowing with green these days—there’s been so much rain everywhere. Central Park is a riot of vivid jewel-tones, between the grassy lawns and the stately canopy of trees that line the cobblestone sidewalk of Fifth Avenue. I went home to the farm for the weekend; as we turned down the long driveway, the rolling hills of the farm were laid out in front of us, in various shades of dark green, pale green, and bright green. The cow pasture, the tops of the trees in the woods beyond the stream, the high grass of the field above the ponds…all green. (This is the farm where I grew up—the namesake of this blog and where my parents still live, and I still—and forever—will call home no matter where I live.)

My dad sits in a wooden rocking chair in front of the fireplace. He’s wearing a wool sweater, warming his toes in the heat of the fire, and cradling my youngest niece who sleeps quietly on his shoulder. Picture books are strewn across the window seats and floor of our big open living room, which looks out over the ponds and the pastures and forest beyond. Dusk is falling in soft shadowy shades across the farm. Over in the kitchen, I lean against the edge of the countertop with one of my sisters. My mom stands across from us, making pizza for dinner.