Morning light came through the cottage windows and stretched across the hallway floor as Emma made her way toward the kitchen.
She passed the photographs she had walked by dozens of times growing up—her parents on the beach, Emma as a child with a gap between her front teeth, Margaret standing beside a hydrangea nearly as tall as she was.
Emma stopped at that one.
She remembered the summer it had been taken. The hydrangea had grown nearly as tall as Margaret that year, heavy with blooms she couldn’t bring herself to cut.
Emma smiled and continued toward the kitchen.
Being in the cottage without her grandmother still caught her at odd moments. Sometimes it was a photograph. Sometimes Margaret’s reading glasses beside her chair or a dish Emma remembered using when she was twelve.
The house hadn’t changed much.
That was probably what made Margaret’s absence so noticeable.
Emma filled the kettle and reached into the cupboard for a mug. While she waited for the water to heat, she noticed the cast-iron pans stacked near the stove.
Margaret had been particular about those.
Oil them while they’re still warm.
Emma remembered standing beside the sink with a cloth while Margaret showed her how to season one properly. At the time, Emma had mostly been concerned with getting outside before the tide came in.
She ran her fingers over the handle of the top pan.
Some things apparently stayed with you anyway.
Coffee in hand, she walked into the living room.
Margaret’s chair sat beside the window, its floral cushion faded along one arm from years of sunlight. Her Bible was still on the small table beside it.
Emma sat down.
The cushion gave beneath her, and she settled back with her coffee.
For a few minutes, she stayed there.
The clock ticked on the wall. A car passed somewhere along the road. Outside, a bird called from near the garden.
Then the windchimes moved.
Emma looked toward the window.
Listen.
Margaret’s letter came back to her.
The windchimes sounded again. A gull called farther toward the shore, and somewhere behind the cottage, water dripped steadily from the gutter.
Her gaze moved beyond the window to the garden.
A year without Margaret’s hands in it had begun to show.
Emma set down her coffee.
She knew what she could do today.
The garden looked worse from outside.
Last year’s stems filled several beds. Leaves had gathered along the stone edging, and the hydrangeas stood bare and woody beside the cottage. The ground was still damp from recent rain.
Emma walked through the garden, remembering the daffodils along the stone wall, the peonies farther back, and the hydrangeas near the house.
Annuals filled the beds closest to the porch every summer, although Margaret changed those depending on what caught her eye at the nursery.
The wooden bench still sat beneath the old tree.
Emma stopped beside it.
She and Margaret had spent hours there over the years. Sometimes talking. Sometimes shelling peas or snapping beans into a bowl. Sometimes doing nothing at all.
Emma brushed a few leaves from the seat.
The small garden shed stood near the back of the property. Emma crossed the yard and pulled open the door.
It creaked exactly as she remembered.
Inside, clay pots were stacked on one shelf, hand tools hung from hooks along the wall, and two pairs of gardening gloves sat beside a dented watering can.
Emma picked up the smaller pair.
Margaret’s.
She set them back and found another pair in the basket below.
Those would do.
She carried a hand rake and pruning shears into the garden and started with the bed nearest the porch.
At first, she worked carefully, moving the old leaves aside to see what had begun growing underneath. Before long, she was recognizing which shoots to leave and which weeds to pull.
Margaret had taught her the difference years ago. This one comes back every year—a perennial. This one we plant again each spring—an annual.
Emma hadn’t understood why anyone needed so many categories for flowers.
Now, kneeling in the damp soil, she was surprised by how much she remembered.
She cleared leaves from around the first daffodil shoots and loosened the packed soil with her fingers.
By late morning, she’d uncovered a line of green along the stone wall.
Emma sat back on her heels.
It wasn’t much, but the garden already looked better.
She brushed the dirt from her gloves and stood.
Near the shed, Margaret’s compost bin was still tucked against the fence. Emma lifted the lid. Kitchen scraps were long gone, but beneath a layer of dried leaves was dark soil.
Margaret had composted almost everything she could.
Emma remembered carrying bowls of vegetable peelings outside after dinner while Margaret followed with the coffee grounds.
It all turns into something useful again. You just have to give it time, Margaret would say.
Emma closed the lid and went back to work.
By noon, Emma’s sweater was tied around her waist and there was dirt beneath her fingernails despite the gloves.
She’d cleared two beds, gathered a pile of dead stems and found several more daffodils pushing through near the fence.
The windchimes sounded whenever the breeze picked up.
Each time, Emma noticed them.
Maybe that was all Margaret had meant by listening. Not searching for anything. Just paying attention to what was already around her.
Emma carried the tools back to the shed and returned them to their places.
On her way toward the cottage, she stopped at the bench again.
This time, she sat.
The garden was still mostly brown. The hydrangeas were bare, the trees hadn’t leafed out yet, and the beds would need several more mornings before they were ready for spring planting.
But along the stone wall, the daffodils were unmistakable now that she’d cleared away the leaves around them.
Emma leaned back against the bench.
The breeze moved through the windchimes.
A few birds called from the neighboring yard. From somewhere beyond the houses came the distant sound of the water.
She sat for a while longer before heading back inside.
Inside, Emma washed her hands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a streak of dirt from her wrist.
Inside, Emma washed her hands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a streak of dirt from her wrist. She glanced at the clock as she dried them. She still had a little time before she needed to start work.
Her laptop was waiting on the kitchen table.
She looked through the window toward the garden. She’d cleared two beds and uncovered a row of daffodil shoots along the stone wall. Margaret’s bench sat beneath the tree, and although there was plenty left to do, it could wait.
Emma pulled out a chair and opened her computer.
Outside, the windchimes moved again.
She heard them without looking up.
Her gaze shifted toward the window. The garden was still mostly brown, but along the stone wall, the daffodils she had uncovered that morning stood bright green against the dark soil.
And for the first time since she had arrived, it felt like winter was finally letting go.