It’s been a diary of memories and mental notes, of my grandmother’s gardens, and my mother’s gardens, the gardens of family friends

I’m still layering on the wool, still walking through knee-deep snow, but my mind is on this summer’s garden

Sunday, I planted seeds. There, beside the creek (in which Nellie was wading, wading, wading) I spread out the seed packets, bags of starter mix, seed trays, and the handful of wooden markers I’d found in my potting bench drawer.