Pain lances through her chest, stealing her breath. Foolish to be exerting herself like this, but damn the doctor’s orders. She grasps her trowel, determined, and layers warm soil over the shrub’s vigorous roots.
Myrtle had, long ago, flourished here in this garden when she and Thomas were courting. Its heavy scent freighting their dreams, its white petals falling like confetti over summer lawns; as the soldiers later fell like autumn leaves upon the charnel fields of Flanders.
Denied her own nuptials then, her final wish now is to bequeath the blossom from this plant to some future June bride’s bouquet.