📖 Testo della Storia
I grew up in a kitchen where mint grew wild by the windowsill, and that smell became a compass for me—safe, familiar, alive. Years later, when I moved back, I helped start a community-based garden project that asked neighbors to bring what they could, whether a pot or a story. There’s always that first comer who’s shy, eyes darting, unsure whether to plant or just watch; we invite them in with a smile and a tag—an easy role, a watering can, a name on the list—and suddenly they’re part of the rhythm. These small gestures, generally overlooked, stitch people together. People come for herbs or tomatoes, but they leave with connections that hum along under the surface, unexpected and stubbornly tender. I still press mint leaves between my fingers and think about how the simplest scents and a shared patch of soil can change a day, a neighborhood, even the shape of someone’s life.