Then she cried, quietly, one hand flat on the box, and I didn’t get up.

I didn’t tell her it was okay.

I stayed where I was until she wiped her face on her sleeve and carried the box out to the car.

I followed her down the walk.

The yellow roses Grandma had planted along the path were lost under the weeds, and her hand trowel was still stuck in the dirt where she had left it, rusted to the color of the clay.

Martha saw me looking at it.