We planted it together in the bare patch where the wedding arch had stood.
The soil was dark and cold beneath my fingernails. Chelsea dug too quickly, making the hole wider than it needed to be. I did not correct her.
When the rosebush was settled, she sat back on her heels.
“I found something,” she said.
She reached into her pocket and handed me an envelope.
My name was written on the front in my grandmother’s handwriting.
I stared at it.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was in the bottom of the box Dad gave me after the wedding. He said it was from Grandma’s attic. He forgot he had it until he was clearing out the garage.”
The envelope had been sealed for years.
Inside was a single folded letter.
Haley,
If you are reading this, you have probably spent too much time trying to be strong for everyone else.
I hope you remember that a house is not only the walls you protect. It is the place where you are allowed to put down what is heavy.
Your roses will survive more than you think. Prune what is dead. Keep what still blooms. And do not apologize for making room for sunlight.
Love always,
Grandma
Chelsea watched me read it.
“She knew you,” she said.
“She knew both of us.”
Chelsea nodded. Her eyes filled, but she smiled.
“I’m trying to learn how to be alone without feeling abandoned,” she said.
“That takes time.”
“I know.”
“I’m trying to learn that taking care of people does not mean letting them use me.”
She looked at me then, really looked.
“That takes time too.”
We sat in the dirt until the rain began again.
This time, neither of us ran inside immediately.
By spring, the garden had returned in places I had not expected.
