When we came to live in the little yellow house in the countryside, what I didn't expect was the silence. Such nothing as to hear the water trickling through the kitchen pipes, my clamoring thoughts. And yet, I welcome the sharp edge it gives my days. The keer-keering of the hawk-pair echoes above the pines. They return to one another evening after evening. The dog whimpers. We listen for the sound of your car in the drive, of your heavy footfall on the hardwood.

In the wind, a petal from the blossoming plum has settled on your lapel. I leave it be, liking how it places us here, in the garden. Somehow, tending to the gophers' tunneling brings us together after a bitter fight. A buff-breasted hawk comes to rest on the fence, and we both turn to watch it fly off again into the trees. You pluck a yellowed leaf from the climbing rose, stab the shovel into the dirt at your feet and stand straighter.

Still there are patches of ground where nothing will grow. I plant and replant the same barren mounds. I can't help but feel like whole years of my life are missing.

Again, I claw another hole, this time for geranium cuttings, already thinking of its going brittle. Then from the corner of my eye, a small victory: dark green spears of Spanish bluebells are edging up through the soil.