She gave up the garden for a future she hadn’t seen.

The dirt looked barren.
The wind lifted it in thin spirals
around her feet.

The sun beat down,
and though the sand shimmered,
it felt almost welcoming.

She stood over the raw patch,
steady.

One square foot at a time,
she turned the soil with her pitchfork.

The tomato plants grew.
The eggplants followed.
Peppers settled into the corner.

The seasons no longer belonged to months.
They belonged to the garden.

She whispered to the seedlings,
tended them like something that might hold.

The rhythm steadied her.

Small green shoots
pushed through the dirt.

She stood there,
hands still.

Long enough
for the wind to move past her.

Long enough
for the quiet to settle.

Then she set the pitchfork down.

Carefully.

As if she might come back for it.

She didn’t look at the rows again.

Just stepped
out of the garden.