They all wondered, whispering to themselves, “How does her garden grow?” Even the yapping tiny dogs with bad attitudes grew silent as they were walked past a refused to lift their legs by her dahlias.
The sunshine made her roses, caladiums, peonies and hollyhocks look as though were made of perfect plastic, not fragile carbon that would dry up and crumble to bits by Autumn’s end.
The perfection of her plot of goodness came from him.
The blood that dripped from his lips, as she cradled his head that hot afternoon, was soaked out of the shirt she wore into a bucket of water. Muttering to herself, eyes stinging with ache, she poured that water in the soil by her door and around the trees.
She fertilized the soil with his ashes. She was supposed to toss them into the uncaring waves of the ocean, sending him back home but she couldn’t. After all the black-clad mourners drifted away, she changed into her most ragged and stained dress, in order to spread his powdery and gritty remains over the dirt that supported Life and watched it come and go.
When the sun had set each day, she sat under the oak tree and wept. Her tears kept the lillies-of-the-valley growing for weeks longer than they should.
If you and I could hear the trees whispering among themselves, we would hear how they are telling the sea that he is with them. The sea replies that they cannot hear her, in the bathtub, shrieking for him to return.
She tends her garden and imagines he is there. In every leaf, in every flower.
People are jealous of her blooming pain yet she is envious of their rooted joy.