A Garden of Quiet Mercies
That autumn, I planted Catherine’s favorite rose — pale blush, soft fragrance — near the table. I didn’t explain; Graham understood anyway.
The next morning, I found a tin of tea on my step with a note: For the evenings when the past is loud.
When dusk came, the solar lights woke like patient stars. Henry counted them one by one.
“No night monsters,” he said solemnly. “We have a fence and a moon.”
One evening he asked, “Mr. Hawthorne, why do roses have thorns?”
“So the world remembers to touch gently,” I said. He nodded, satisfied.
