The woman stood in her backyard. She was holding a garden hose as the sun splashed soft light on her through the leaves of the large tree in the center of the yard. The water was not turned on all the way so instead of an angry hurried rush it came out in large soft droplets that sank wetly into the ground. The dirt was gray, it had been a dry summer and the yard had been neglected.

She was sitting in her lawn swing that hot July afternoon and for the first time in a long time, noticed something outside of her own enveloping sorrow. The flowers were wilting, their sad limp leaves were curled up and the flower heads were bent over as if they were begging her mercy. She always attributed human emotions to things, it must have come from growing up watching years of laughing mice, cunning cats and talking apes on tv. She felt guilty if she stepped on one of her daughters stuffed animals, perhaps in some way unknown to us they could actually feel pain.

Being a person much motivated by guilt she uncoiled the garden hose and turned the spigot. It was hard to turn having not been used for months. At first nothing came out of the brass colored metal opening. Then with a noisy spurt, warm discolored water exploded out of the hose. Quickly the flow turned into the clear arctic wetness that she remembered from her childhood. Letting the water run through her fingers she could almost taste when she used to put the end of the hose against her lips and let the water that tasted like icy pennies just fill her mouth until she couldn’t hold it and it burst out in a silvery splash.

The water felt surprisingly good against her hands. Hands that could hold a child and create art but had never liked to dig into the earth. The street was quiet, most families were on vacation or in to supper. She could see six houses from her vantage point but still felt isolated. There were no children playing, just the far off sound of a dog barking and the further distant sound of a police siren.

She dragged and pulled the reluctant hose over the lawn to the flower bed and started to water the dying plants. The ground was so dry that the water just ran off it’s hard surface in small, sandy streams. Then it started to absorb the water and changed from dusty gray to a deep moist black. She could smell the change in the ground, inhaling the fresh earthy fragrance. She keep watering the plants, moving slowly around the yard, tending to each rose bush and wildflower he had planted for her.

It wasn’t until she brushed a strand of hair off of her face that she realized she was crying, and had been for some time. She tasted salt on her lips and her eyes were aching. Using the side of her hand she wiped off the tears and bent to turn the hose off. She gently placed the nozzle down on the ground, he always hated when the children would drop it and bend the metal nozzle. The metal flower shaped handle was cold in the palm of her hand, she twisted and heard a squeak as she shut the water off. He must have heard that same squeak thousands of times over the years, he was the gardener, a green thumb they said, she preferred to think it was magic.

Opening up the screen she paused with one hand holding the metal edge of the door and glanced back over her shoulder at the yard. She looked at the flowers, hoping, even though she knew it was too soon to see any change. She thought that maybe, just maybe, they might survive.