Who are you reader? Very little lasts a hundred years. Open your doors and look abroad. What will remain? The trees in front of my house are perhaps 70 years old, perhaps a decade or two more. Many of my neighbors’ trees, planted at the same time, have already been removed. But the plots of ground remain, with new trees planted, shooting their branches up and their roots deep into the soil. Open your doors and look abroad. What is the garden we are tending? The plants we cannot give to those who come a hundred years hence. But the garden we can. We might easily ask Tagore, who are you, writer? The words he left behind do indeed speak to us. Who are you, gardener? What garden are you planting to send your glad voice across a hundred years?