The yellow rose planted after Daniel graduated.
The climbing rose from her grandmother.
The rose Evelyn bought after a trip to Savannah.
Each one had a story.
Then I understood.
Claire was not protecting flowers.
She was protecting coordinates.
Places where memory could still be found.
So we kept them.
We found another path for the walkway.
That was how our relationship developed.
Not through one dramatic reconciliation.
Through repetition.
Breakfast.
Phone calls.
Arguments about gardens.
And returning the next day.
Meanwhile, I began reading Thomas’s letters.
One every night.
I refused to consume fifty years of lost possibility in one afternoon.
The early letters were funny.
Margaret, dorm food has proven your meatloaf was not as bad as I claimed.
Then they became lonely.
Then worried.
Are you angry with me?
Then frightened.
Please write.
Then hurt.
Your mother says you’ve met someone.
The final letter had never been mailed.
