Anchored To Hope

I can't complain about gardens, more often than not ours is the disgrace of the street, suburb even. If you give us something green, we will kill it. I promise. When we lived south there was a Granny who lived across the road from Sam's school. She had long, long, loooong white hair, it was long. So long. She had eyes that pierced the soul like she knew about any secret that I possessed. She was the one who would be the serial killer in CSI or a thriller movie fo shaw! Every morning rain or sun, winter or summer,  you would see her on her knees weeding every single weed. Every one. It was Immaculate. Between each carefully planted flower were pristine white rocks, positioned so perfectly it was like she laid each one in its place.  In the rain, she was there. In 40 degree heat, she was there. Her work spoke of her tenacity and discipline. Her garden praised her loyalty and dedication. One day, she wasn't there. The next day, she wasn't there. Slowly each day...