There is a garden behind the two-story white house on Crescent Circle
It was in that old and forgotten place that my grandmother taught me to tend the growing vegetables
The sweet smell of that place as if it just finished raining
The soft scrape of the shovel as it was plunged into that dark soil
I think of that place more and more
But it comes as though not a personal memory, but something that happened to someone else
Someone better
To think that you took me in when things were at their worst
"How could I have done it?"  I ask
There was nobody there for her, and you could've been the hero
You could've saved her from those stark raving last moments
I loved her
But life goes on
It's selfish that way