I bent down and touched the cold gray edge of the granite.

The yellow rose petals stood out bright against the stone.

If I’d stayed in Ireland those three extra days, my grandson would have stayed locked in that yard.

Flying home hadn’t been a failure of loyalty to my sister.

“You’d have bought me the plane ticket yourself,” I whispered.

The wind stirred the oak leaves overhead, and the tight knot behind my ribs finally loosened.

At ten the next morning I drove to the hardware store on Route 66 to pick up a bag of potting soil and a small spade.