was the same smile I had noticed the first time we met at a church social in 1968.
Every anniversary, Roy brought me red and yellow flowers.
Every single year.
For forty-one years.
I looked at the garden again.
“This might be the most beautiful thing anyone has ever made for me.”
Roy shrugged.
“It’s just a garden.”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
And despite what he said, I knew he understood.
Roy died in March of 2011.
He was sixty-seven.
That still feels far too young.
Of course, I
