My dad in his happy place: his greenhouse.

As a kid, I spent weekends pulling weeds and tending to the thousands of plants he’d collected over the years. I thought it was pointless and boring. They all looked the same to me.

Now I realize my dad is an art collector. Each piece is alive and changing every day: sprouting, blooming, shedding old leaves. I get it now.

These plants thrive on his gentle care, and when they’re happy, he’s happy. He cares for them the same way he’s always cared for me.