My husband created the garden during the summer of 1997. He never asked whether I wanted one.
One Saturday morning, Roy simply pulled into the driveway with the back of his truck loaded with fresh soil, trays of red and yellow flowers, gardening tools, and—judging by the certainty with which he moved—a plan he had clearly been thinking about for quite some time.
I stood on the porch and watched him.
Roy was fifty-three that summer.
He still looked very much like the man I had married when I was
