The soil was good, dark earth mixed with river sand that held moisture without rotting the roots.

I loosened the burlap from the first root ball and set the Mister Lincoln down deep in the hole.

The dark green canes were stiff and healthy, dotted with tiny pale red thorns that would go green by spring.

Caleb had left his plastic bucket by the rose bed during his Sunday visit.

He had spent two hours digging through the fallen leaves beneath the sycamore, hunting for blue-tailed sparrows and little gray fence lizards.

He hadn’t once asked why his father was living in Scottsdale while I lived on Willow Creek Lane.