Most Days I Want to Live

“Not all days. But most days I do. Most days the garden’s almost enough: little pink flowers on the sage, even though the man said we couldn’t eat it. Not this kind. And I said, Then, gosh. What’s the point? The flowers themselves, I suppose. The rain came and then the hail came and my love brought them in. Even tipped over they look optimistic. I know it’s too late to envy the flowers. That century’s over and done. And hope? That’s a jinx. But I did set them right. I patted them a little. And prayed for myself, which is embarrassing to admit in this day and age. But I did it. Because no one was looking or listening anyway.”