I find gloves in the shed. A trowel. Potting soil.
I kneel in the dirt and dig.
It's satisfying in a way nothing else has been lately. The resistance of the soil, the crumble of it between my fingers. The small snap of roots giving way.
I weed with ruthless focus.
"Lucky plants," I mutter. "You get clear instructions. Sun. Water. Don't die. No one asks you to communicate your feelings."
I work until my knees protest and my back twinges. Sweat sticks my shirt to my spine.
At some point, I realize I'm breathing easier.
The back door opens.
I don't turn around.
"You're going to compact the soil if you kneel there too long," Jasper says.
"I'll aerate it. It'll be fine."
"You know what you're doing."
"I know enough. Plants are forgiving. If you mess up, you buy more."
"Different from people."
I rock back on my heels. "That why you like them less?"
"Plants don't call me when their alpha breaks a window. Or when someone forgets to lock the medicine cabinet."
"Plants just die quietly."
"People do, too," he says. "If you're not watching."
The words hang between us.
I look back at the bed.
"I'm watching, Vee."
"I know. You're always watching."
"It's my job. And I'm very good at my job."
"Gold star."
I jab the trowel into the soil again.
He doesn't push.
He leaves me there with the dirt and the sun.
I plant new seeds.
Herbs first—basil, thyme, sage. Then flowers—calendula, marigolds.
I water them carefully.
