Every day, I traverse the lagoon in the Boston Public Garden, where the Swan Boats glide through the summer. This spring I met a hawk right down at eye level, and once I saw a miraculous albino squirrel. During the pandemic I found myself leaning up against the largest trees, comforted by the idea that they had seen so much, and that this, too, would eventually pass.

This week, one of those oldest willows was lost to disease, marked by the ominous orange spot of the grounds crew, but also honored by them beforehand, so that visitors could admire the graceful arc of her branches one last time.

Dear ones, our whole world is precious in its passing.

May we cherish each second of vibrance,

each moment of grace.