“Silas, when we figure out where we’re going, can we have a garden?” “Sure.” “I wanna grow carnations.” “Carnations?” “And peonies!” “Okay.” “Say you swear.” We figured out where we were going, but the only garden Rosemary Donahue has now are the flowers I have delivered monthly to her tombstone. It’s been a while since I last stood here. I run my hand along the top of her grave. The stone is weathered, the letters of her name eroded, a painful reminder of the time that’s passed.
