He smiled and slipped his copy into a folder labeled *my things*.

I loved the plain confidence of those two words.

We turned the cleared ground behind the house into a little garden.

Not a monument, not some project with plaques and speeches, just raised beds low enough for Lucas to reach without kneeling.

Mrs.

Henderson gave us tomato seedlings.

Linda brought herbs.

Harold turned up one Saturday with a wheelbarrow and a story about a disastrous factory picnic, and the two of them laughed while they dug.