Grandma's Garden

Journal

My grandma's garden fed our whole street. When she died, I let it go to weeds. This spring, I took it back.

Rose grew tomatoes the size of softballs and gave them all away. She said a garden is just love you can eat.

For two years I couldn't even look at it. The weeds got taller than me. The neighbors stopped asking.

In April, Mrs. Chen from next door knocked with a tray of seedlings. 'Your grandma would've wanted you to try,' she said. So I tried.

I had a little flag made for the gate — her tomatoes, her name. 'Rose's Garden.' So the street would know she's still here.

By July, the tomatoes were back. The whole street came by, just like before.

I ate the first tomato standing right there in the dirt, juice on my chin, and I swear I could hear her laughing. 'See? Love you can eat.'

The flag stays up all year now. Some gardens don't end. They just change hands.