Dad takes care of it now.
He even bought a straw hat like hers.
Sometimes he kneels in the soil while the gardeners watch him, just as embarrassed as they once were watching Mom.
Last Tuesday, he cut a white rose and placed it in the nursery.
“Your mother would have loved her,” he said.
“I know.”
“She would have been at the hospital at three in the morning.”
He smiled faintly.
“Probably wearing pearls, just like Beverly.”
Then he paused.
“But she would have handed the baby back to you.”
I laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
Dad rested a hand awkwardly on my shoulder.
“Thank you for calling me that night.”
“You already said that.”
“I want to say it again.”
He squeezed my shoulder.
“For as long as I’m alive.”
Then he looked at me.
“Thank you for letting me come get you.”
Down in the garden, a small brown bird landed beside the birdbath.
