Mom loved her garden boots, which she had for years. ‘I don’t need new ones. A little duct-tape and they’re good as new.’
She named them ‘Jack and Jill,’ consulting them about what to plant where, who to dig up there. When in better health, she could be found traipsing through her flower beds.
I wandered through her home one last time after she passed.
Against the wall sat her boots and fearing they’d be tossed, I planted morning-glories in them. A favorite flower of hers and something I never knew.
Mom’s spirit must have whispered it in my ear.