Like her I was tired. Time bent me slowly. But it was lack of joy, of the story I wasn’t living that cracked me open, hollow.

I’d lived a life before her, or at least the one they gave me, but she moved in, care-free. And I thought,

Now, maybe.

And I don’t blame her for the years that passed. Her shoulders bent like mine, curled around her aching heart. I knew that pain too well!

So, I resolved to wait, learned to love the wind right through me, learned to house the life that chose me. And soon I saw,

She did too.

And it was marvelous!

The garden crept in closer, and hope felt like spring, but life fell like leaves. And though the breeze was lovely, and I smiled as she scattered seeds, I longed for the garden story.

Instead, I felt the pain, knife sharp, lightening in my skin. Is this the end for me? Where they decide I am done. . .they don’t need this tree.

The wind I loved felt bitter. The life in me cracked open. . .I creaked and groaned and wondered,

Can gardeners hear trees?

But pain lifted its fingers and in its wake, her laughter. And the wind rushed through like life. And I realized the garden had reached me!

And I danced alongside flowers, and whistled, “It’s nice to meet you!” And every now and then, I see her gazing up at me, happy, all admiration. And all her joy is mine.

We are here!

Both in the garden.

But the thing I love the most is swaying to the rhythm I finally hold in my arms. Not made by breeze or wind, but by a woman who became a mother pushing her child in the swing hanging down

from me.