“Come on, Mom. I’ll make dinner.”
I laughed.
“You burned the last dinner you made.”
“I’ve improved.”
“According to whom?”
He smiled.
“Myself.”
I shook my head and stood.
We walked slowly toward the house, passing the roses Michael had planted through forty-two years of marriage.
Some were old and weathered.
Some had grown wild.
Others were new, their roots still settling into the earth.
But every one of them belonged.
At the kitchen door, I looked back one last time.
The greenhouse glowed warmly against the darkening sky.
For a moment, I could almost hear Michael’s laughter.
I smiled.
Then I went inside, where my son was setting two plates on the table and the smell of dinner was beginning to fill the house.
For the first time in many years, the future didn’t frighten me.
It felt like spring.
