Garlic mustard, I am led to believe, is an invasive weed. So each spring I walk around Paradise Hill and wherever I see it I yank it from the ground. One weed after another. And there’s always another weed. And another. And another. An effort such as this, I know, is fruitless, irrational. Yet I continue with the practice, year after year. Like still believing in Santa Claus. Like looking for Easter Eggs. Like rising each morning and doing the same things I did yesterday—walking the same paths, wandering the same woods, breathing the same breath over again. The same things today as yesterday. Over and over, day after day. Until I arrive at the last yesterday, which I won’t even know is the last yesterday until the day after that. If ever.