empty garden with our hands in our pockets, looking at the bare dirt.
“It looks so sad,” he said.
“It’s resting,” I said. “Everything needs to rest.”
“Will it come back?”
“Every spring,” I said. “For fifty-eight years.”
He was quiet.
“My grandmother died in March,” he said suddenly. “Last March. A month before I came here.”
I looked at him.
“I didn’t tell anybody,” he said. “Not at work. I just took two days off and flew to Chicago and buried her and came back. And then corporate sent me here.” He shook his head. “I think I was
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