I reached out and put a hand on the hive, feeling the lovely deep hum of the workings within. Amy Higgins is gone—is dead. You know her—her dooryard is full of hollyhocks and she’s got—had—jasmine growing by her cowshed and a good patch of dogwood nearby. I stood quite still, letting the vibration of life come into my hand and touch my heart with the strength of transparent wings. Her flowers are still growing.
