Photo via Veronica Roth (posted with permission)
I head for the cash register, heart-shaped flowers draped like pendant necklaces over the rim of my Red Flyer wagon.
An elegantly dressed shopper approaches me. Her hair is professionally coiffed, her posture is ramrod straight. But her hands are all aflutter, and her face is a tangle of emotions I cannot read.
"Is that–? No, it can't be!"
She speaks with a clipped British accent; no mistaking her heritage now! Her eyes melt into a puddle of sentiment as she recalls for me the cottage garden of her childhood, the mother who planted Bleeding Hearts in the lush undergrowth of her own Secret Garden.
I cling to every word.
She is taller than my grandmother, her mannerisms more refined. But she reminds me so much of my Nottingham-born Nana! Their backgrounds are similar, their sentiments intertwined.
In this brief encounter, I am reminded anew that so much of life –our biology, our shared stories–has its genesis in the garden.