By D. P. Gooding
Every weekend she was out there, either wresting something gnarled out of the ground or trying to force something new into it. She had called out to him once, kneeling before the cold frame, and asked with forced jollity why he didn’t come out and join her.
He remembered feeling quite smug as he replied, “To paraphrase St. Augustine, ‘give me time for pottering about in the garden, but not today!’”
Squinting through the kitchen window now, he could just make out the top of the lightly rotting frame, like a fence between himself and something he could no longer see.
Beautiful. I saw the entire scene in mind and the feelings inside.