The Garden She Left Behind

After she died, her garden kept going— which felt, at first, like a betrayal. The sunflowers faced the sun without her permission. The daffodils came back without her calling. The roses did what roses do: bloomed, thorned, refused to grieve. I didn't know what to do with a garden that didn't know it was an orphan— so I watered it the way she taught me: too much, too often, talking to the flowers like they could hear. Maybe they can. By July the sunflowers were taller than either of us had ever been— golden, absurd, leaning toward the light the way she did, the way I'm learning to. A garden is not a metaphor. A garden is dirt and patience and the stubborn insistence that something beautiful can come from something buried. But also, yes—fine— it's a metaphor.