By early afternoon, I drove into town for supplies. The hardware store smelled like cedar chips and earth. On the way home, I stopped at a small nursery tucked beside the road and spent far too long choosing plants—mountain lavender, creeping thyme, and a pair of rugged, stubborn little blue spruce seedlings that somehow reminded me of myself.
Back at the cabin, I knelt in the cool soil by the front path and dug small spaces for each plant. The ground was firm from the last frost but not frozen, and the scent of mountain earth filled the air as I worked.
My hands got dirty. My hair fell into my face. My nose turned pink from the wind.
It felt wonderful.
When I finished, I sat back on my heels and admired the small garden. Nothing extravagant. Nothing meant for anyone but me.
Just intentions planted into the soil.
A slow breath left my chest, the kind that felt like a release from deep inside.
Later that day, I gathered a few of my grandmother’s old things from a box I’d kept in the closet for years—the embroidered hand towels she’d made when I was little, the wooden bowl she used to fill with apples, the small iron candle holder shaped like a pine tree.