I used to be mad that Papa didn’t tend to Mom’s garden to prepare for winter. But now I look forward to spring and tending it myself. These are a treasure to me.
Once their wooden dowel stems are snapped there is a rattle of seeds. It’s a special music. Eventually they fall out, but in the quiet I shake each one. I make a pile. For three years now I have collected the weathered flowers from her garden and I fill a vase in my own house with her special perennials.