he left.
I remained at the kitchen table after the door closed.
Outside, the garden had already entered its winter state.
The flowers were gone.
The soil was dark and still.
Waiting.
Roy planted that garden in the summer of 1997.
He spent an entire Saturday making sure everything was exactly where he wanted it.
He chose red and yellow because those were the colors he had brought me on every anniversary.
He never asked whether I wanted a garden.
He simply knew.
I maintained it for twenty-nine years.
And
