A Postcard and a Tree

"It will never grow," my father said to my mother as she and my aunt dig up a clumb of sapling birch along a river. My mom and aunt put the saplings and some dirt into a bucket and stuck the bundle in the backseat of the car.

"It will never grow," my father said to my mother as she planted the little trees in the front yard of their new home.

The tree planting happened before I was born. As long as I can remember, I lived in the blue house with the big white birch tree in front.

I recently received this art gallery postcard with images of wood pieces: