When a stranger came to our garden gate, my mother would admit them no matter the hour. The women of her family were well-known for this service, and some came from great distances to speak with my mother in the gardens that were her pride. Lush greenery dotted with medicinal herbs surrounding a stand of willow trees that kept winter’s icy winds at bay and shadowed from the harshness of the summer sun.
Leading them through plants she spent her days teaching me to nurture, my mother gave each visitor as much time as they needed—some stayed the whole night long. All she asked in exchange was an empty glass jar which she would bury after they left. As often as I asked about what transpired, she would only smile and say that I still had time left before I needed to face the truth of this world.
At fifteen I may have been young, but I was hardly naïve.
