A certain childishness in us loves to pick Nature's littlest pieces, examine, rip, dissect, keep them. The magnolia leaves look like aged skin. Yesterday Julia traced the veins on the tops of my hands, noting how they wiggle and slide around. "Does it hurt?" she asked. I remember doing the same to my mother's hands while sitting in church. I remember her magnolia skin when she was my age. The dandelions, however, are new like eyelashes, like cheerleader pompoms, like little-girl tutus ready for their stage.