He died in early June and by the end of July the beans and tomatoes in his final garden were alive and thriving. Looking after them was both a way of honouring him and staying connected. There was also a wild patch that would one day become my perennial flower garden, but then was just a flowering chaos of weeds where bees and spiders came to visit. In the early morning I would sit with my coffee on the stone steps between the raspberry bushes and wild daisies and marvel at the sounds and sights of life going on around me. For a few moments I ceased to be a “grieving widow,” and became a soul in wonder. Later I’d come in and open Mary Oliver’s book Devotions and have a poem for breakfast. This is the one I found one day in late July.