Remembering a friend.

The courtyard sits behind her home, seventeen paces from the back door. She chose the location " “yes, he belongs here.” It is simple in its construction, and not very large, and inside its wrought iron perimeter are clusters of daffodils and irises and hydrangeas and lilies all surrounded by large, hardy plants capable of withstanding harsh northern winters. She selected the fencing and the pave stones and the shrubbery and the flowers. She posted the fence and she dug the bowls and she made them twice the size of the roots. And in the spring she fed and nurtured the plantings, and tended them, until now, as it is summer, and his marker has disappeared from view, the fullness and well-being of the garden enveloping the flat, gray slate, a respite warm and lasting until the chill of autumn again lays bare the past.  

The End

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