I didn’t want the night to end, feeling like my daddy at one of those homecoming nights with his brothers at Weeks Island, or my mom at one of Holy Rosary’s masquerade balls, laying eyes on all of the children who were hers or loved into being hers. She’d come to Galveston, taken life’s sorrow, and planted a garden. Mama understood it’s in the chill of February that is the best time to plant roses. She turned her tears to water for her garden and relied on the full sun of God’s light to warm us.
