Today, I turn my attention to the garden. My wife is on her knees between rows of spinach and shell beans, mudding in the cabbages. Last night in bed she admitted that she doesn’t have the heart to thin out the carrots this year. Neighbors passing by in their cars slow down and wave. I’ve heard they’re happy we’re busy again, glad to see we’ve divided the bed of blue flag and cut back the mock orange and forsythia into comfortable green mounds. For me it was the way the maples filled out on the first warm day in late April, going from a green fuzz to full leaf overnight, waking me when I heard their voices whispering in the open window. The next morning I drove to Cierich’s Greenhouse. A flock of gulls tired of chasing a tractor across a plowed field watched as I picked out a flat of red and white geraniums for the front border. I saved three red ones for the grave. I wish I could say I had the courage to genuflect, cross myself, and pray the Miserere when I got there. Or tell you that I brushed aside the wands of red poppies, kissed the stone, and combed my fingers through the loam for messages from my daughter, but no, all I could do was dig three holes, set in the red geraniums, and firm the soil around them.