Devorah is the worm queen. I watch her tear at the earth with her small hands. Dirt gets trapped under her fingernails, though this does not keep her from digging further into the ground. Her hands, like tiny machines, so meticulous in their workings, pull apart clods of dirt and dead leaves with delicate force. They seem to know, in their own way, how to maneuver around rocks incapable of being unearthed.
When she sifts through the loose piles around her, the worms raise their heads to make themselves known. Devorah is lost to the rest of the world in these moments. Examining ever so closely the ridges and rings that make up their exterior. She laughs every time they wriggle and twist in her palm. When she looks back at me, she searches for something more than a nod or a smile. She has caught me in the act of documenting her observations.
On my walk home, I feel sorry. She is always challenging my understanding of the way these simple treasures unravel before our eyes. It is my fear she can already tell that time ages our frame of mind. I cannot escape into worm land with her. Though I try.