After Mom passed, the house felt silent in a way none of us knew how to fix. Her rose bushes were dying, and one Saturday my sister said, let's save them. We spent the whole afternoon in the dirt, arguing about mulch and laughing about the time Mom sprayed herself with the hose. Now every family visit ends in the garden. We trim, we water, we talk about her like she just stepped inside for lemonade. The flowers gave us permission to say her name, and saying her name turned out to be what we needed most.
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