The Hebe, a native of New Zealand, is perfect for a San Francisco garden, flourishing as it does in coolish summers and mild winters. We have three - a big, tall bushy one in the back that, in late summer, bursts with bright pink flowers, and two that I cut like short hedges along the path. The latter two give us a smaller spray of purple flowers in the spring and summer. In fact, they’re just beginning to open now. The Hebe is named after the Greek goddess of youth and, though we have only boys between us, it seems fitting to feature it today: three bushes, three flowers, three boys.

Among many other gifts, our children serve as the time markers in our lives. They grow like weeds even as we feel like we are standing still. And then one day, the aging process seems to freeze. At least it does for me. In my mind and in my heart I can never quite see them as the adults they obviously are, even as they grow families and careers of their own. They’re still my kids. I want them to be happy and stay safe. That's all.

This is a love letter to the boys I cannot see or touch: happy birthday, Hans; stay safe, Jesse and Jack. I love you.