I slid Grandma’s brass key into the lock.

It turned smoothly, the way it always had, and the door swung open on the smell of lemon oil and old pine.

By nine the following morning I had a trowel in one hand and a bucket holding three yellow tea roses at my feet.

The bed along the front walk had gone to weeds while the lawyers fought, and the worst of them came up in one long rope.

The dirt beneath the tangle was the color of coffee with milk stirred in.