She planted the first one young. Dug her hands into soil she didn’t understand. Waited. Watered. Nothing came until she stopped forcing.
The second grew wild. Vines twisting. Flowers where she least expected. She learned that some things bloom best without a plan.
The third she left empty. Sat on the ground and let the weeds grow tall. That was when she finally understood—she didn’t need to prove anything to the earth.
Three gardens. Three shades of green. She carries them all now. Not to tend. Just to remember who she became in each.
