I was done. Nine kids raised. Thirty-seven years of scraped knees and bad dreams. Of teaching them to tie shoes, to say please, to believe someone could love them. They're gone now. Living their lives. Some call on Sundays. Some not at all. I'm fifty-eight. My knees are shot. My back protests when I stand too long. The garden I used to tend... the one I planted when I learned I'd never grow a child inside me... it's wild now. Overgrown. I don't have the strength for it anymore. I was going to retire. Sleep in. Travel maybe.. Rest. Then the call came. Emergency placement. Twelve years old. A girl. Won't look at me. Won't speak unless it's to say no. She breaks things. Maybe on purpose... Tests every rule. Slams every door. The kind of angry you get when you've been left too many times. When you stop hoping anyone will stay. I know that anger. I felt it when the doctor said "barren." When I realized I'd never carry life. When my husband left to have his own family... I'm too tired for this. But I said yes anyway. One morning she finds me staring at it. The garden. Weeds choking out the roses. Tomato plants collapsed. "Used to be beautiful," I say. She shrugs. "I could fix it." She just wanted something to do. Somewhere to put her hands. She starts small. Pulls a few weeds. Then more. I sit on the porch and tell her which plants are which. What needs sun. What needs shade. How to tell when the soil is too dry. She doesn't talk much. But she listens. Her hands in the dirt. Coaxing things back to life. The tomatoes start climbing again. The roses open. The garden slowly comes back to life. And she... she's different too. Less angry... Less quiet.. And focused. I thought I was done creating. Thought my body decided that for me years ago. But watching her... dirt under her nails, hair pulled back, whispering to the seedlings like I used to... I sent nine kids into the world. But this one. Who learned to nurture. Who learned to make things bloom. This is what I was meant to grow... She's sixteen now. The garden is hers. She knows it better than I ever did. Talks about studying horticulture. About teaching other kids to grow things. I'm sixty-two. My knees still don't work. But I sit on the porch and watch her tend the roses. I couldn't give birth. But I grew her. And she will grow others. The garden doesn't end with me.
