My middle name; the
grandmother in me.
I used to water her rose garden by the side of the house. It was small, tidy, lined up in neat little rows. I was always careful not to let the water touch the stems or the red petals - this fear had been instilled in me by my grandmother years ago. I would watch the cool drops sink into the soil and think of her; this namesake of mine, this woman who was so much more than a source of ginger ale. She used to watch me in her garden from her bedroom window, once from her room, now from far above.