in the places I remembered.
And every year, when I finally stood, wiped the soil from my jeans, and looked down at the finished garden, I felt Roy nearby.
Not literally.
I knew better than that.
But there are certain things you do long enough with someone you love that, after they’re gone, performing those same rituals seems to bring some part of them back into the room.
Or the yard.
The garden wasn’t valuable in a financial sense.
The flowers cost perhaps forty or fifty dollars every spring.
Some
