At sunset we have a ceremonial tree planting.

The Bohemian dug the hole. Mary chose the tree (a hearty, up-and-coming mango). We all gather to move the soil and make our wishes.

Three boys (eight, seven and four and a half) jostle about to take turns with shovels, rakes and the hose. Bare feet dodge horse manure, our mango tree’s best friend.

Mary sprinkles Spirulina powder at the root base and the green dust catches the breeze to swirl in ritualistic smoke against the sunset sky.

This tree has been given everything it needs to thrive in the corner of the field. Once it is all tucked in and watered, the boys wander away from the sapling to some new point of interest near the garden. But the adults stay to gaze upon this green-leafed embodiment of potential. We offer hopes of big juicy fruit. Imagine thick branches holding children of the future.

I see the shade it will one day cast stretching out to shield a vast section of the pasture. Its roots holding the story of this planting. It is our family tree.

“Its going to outlive us all,” says Mary.

And nothing feels more right.