When I was eight, she gave me a green watering can and led me through the garden behind her lake house. She stopped beside a row of pink peonies.
« These bloomed the year you were born, sweetheart, » she said. « Plants have families too. »
My grandmother, Penny, believed flowers remembered things.
A few steps later, she touched the lavender lining the stone path.
« I planted this after my surgery. Because hospitals smell terrible. I wanted the house to smell hopeful when I came back. »
The roses beside the porch marked her wedding anniversary. The white daisies appeared after my first school recital.
Bee balm filled an empty corner after one difficult summer when, according to Grandma, « this family needed something cheerful that refused to behave. »
« I planted this after my surgery. »
