Water

You turned to me with dirt in your hands, asking to water the zucchini. I dragged the hose into the garden, and twisted the spout. Water came spilling out, drenching the green plants. I was careful not to touch the mint leaves; they needed to be dry for my mother’s tea.

The day our garden stopped growing, I dragged your wheelchair from the kitchen. You sat on the patio, watching twelve years of tomatoes being covered with cement to build a ramp.

With your head in your hands, I watched a tear fall onto the brown soil.

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