“No gardening gloves?” My mom had been religious about wearing them, never wanting the dirt to stain her fingers. Rhodes shook her head. “I can’t feel what I need to with gloves.” I frowned as I watched her place the next two bundles of blooms. “What do you need to feel?” She shrugged, the action sending some of that wild hair into her face. “The give of the soil. Whether there’s resistance or not. If the plant works where I’m placing it.” A small smile played on her lips. “Might sound woo-woo, but I swear the soil talks to me. There’s an energy to it. I never want to miss what it tells me.”
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