By Alizabeth Worley

The backyard of our townhome is small, our grass dry. Colonies of “prickly lettuce” are taking over the edges. Still, our backyard is a woodsy haven — pine trees rise up between our gate and the parking lot behind it. We sprawl out on overgrown grass covered in dappled shade and strewn with bendy pine needles, our hands smelling like sap and resin. In the wake of pregnancy and motherhood and mystery illness, I have missed hikes to Battle Creek falls and cross-country skiing at Soldier Hollow. Here at home, though, we pick volunteer strawberries in the backyard and paint freshly fallen pine cones, birds chirping in the branches. I want to stay forever. Or rather, take me where you will: I will never leave completely.

Alizabeth Worley lives near Brigham Young University, where she earned an M.F.A. in creative nonfiction. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Guernica, Grist, Tar River Poetry and elsewhere. You can find her at alizabethworley.com.