Three years. Three springs of walking past that April Kiss’ camellia in my side garden, watching it push out healthy dark green leaves while producing exactly zero flowers. I fertilized it. I watered it. I talked to it — yes,…
I still remember standing in the garden that March morning, coffee going cold in my hand, staring at my twelve-year-old camellia like I’d just watched a car crash in slow motion. She’d been loaded with fat pink buds. A hard…
It was a gray November afternoon, and my neighbor leaned over the fence with that particular look — the one that says “I’m about to save you from yourself.” He pointed at the small shrub I was tucking into the…
