It was a heartbreaking moment when my husband Bruce passed away in the late fall. Then deciding what to do with his garden was way down on the list of necessary tasks. During the first few months, I cried with our family, planned a memorial, celebrated a quiet Thanksgiving, and panicked over not having bought Christmas presents.

As the new year began, the often rainy days and long nights deepened my sorrow. I found myself exhausted at the end of February, both physically and mentally. Then the daffodils (水仙花) came out in the garden.

Years before, Bruce had planted dozens of these lemon-yellow flowers. To him, they served as a reminder of hope, a promise that light and warmth would soon replace cold and dark. Looking at those daffodils, I thought about how Bruce had considered our garden a living work of art, carefully choosing plants so we’d see new blooms every month.

Then I noticed all the weeds that had taken root and spread everywhere. The neglect (疏于打理) showed, for Bruce’s illness had lasted a couple of years, a time when he didn’t have energy for yard work the way he had before.

Faced with the neglected garden, I felt at a loss how to deal with the garden in the beginning. My daughter suggested I hire a person to clean and tidy everything up. I didn’t respond.

Every time I sat in the garden alone, the memories of the lively garden came flooding, like the numerous scenes in an unforgettable film. I was reminded of so many days when Bruce came home from work, put on old clothes, and headed out of the door to mow or prune (修剪). Orange dragonflies followed him around the yard as he worked. Honeybees buzzed among the flowers, birds sang beautiful songs, and gentle breezes carried the sweet smell of earth. No matter how cold or wet it was, the fresh air and physical activity made him energized and refreshed. For Bruce, the work was quiet and comforting, which was a relief, as well as a pleasure.

“I should tend the garden well on my own,” I though to myself.

The garden was so full of vitality (生机) that I expected others to appreciate it with me.

When I was about ten years old, my brother and I received a wonderful gift—tennis rackets(网球拍)and balls, which was exciting, for we had never played tennis. However, there was no tennis court in the small town where we lived. One Saturday morning my brother excitedly suggested playing tennis against the school building. I agreed immediately, not realizing what a lesson we would learn.

When we reached the school ground, no one was around. We began hitting our balls against the school building. We took turns hitting the ball back and forth, soon becoming pretty good at it and hitting higher and faster. Suddenly, something unthinkable happened—the ball got out of control and went crashing through one of the upstairs windows. We looked around and no one was in sight except an old man sitting on a porch halfway down the block.

Quietly, I asked my brother what to do. He looked around again. After confirming no one saw us, except that old man but he probably didn’t know who we were anyway, he suggested leaving secretly. “But should we tell Dad and Mum?” I asked again. A flash of worry came across his face. He was confused too. Carefully considering whether we should tell what had happened, we finally decided to pick up the rest of our balls and headed for home quietly.

Our mother was always in tune with her children. “What happened?” She asked as soon as she saw us. Looking into her eagle eyes, we had to admit what we had done. Hearing that, my mother screamed, “Oh, my goodness!” but soon calmly asked us to tell it to Dad. The moment Dad walked in the house, we both hurried to him and poured out our story. His response was typical. “Well, next Monday, I will call the school doorkeeper and see what we need to do. You will probably have to pay for the window.” We had two terribly worrying days to wait until our Dad got home from work on Monday.

Dad stepped into the house, looking quite tired and serious.

He could see our relief as he continued.

It bothered Ben every time he went through the kitchen. It was that little metal container on the shelf above Martha’s cook stove. He probably would not have noticed it so much if Martha had not repeatedly told him never to touch it. The reason was that it contained a “secret herb” from her mother, and since she had no way of ever refilling the container, she was concerned that if Ben or anyone else ever picked it up and looked inside, they might accidentally drop it and spill its valuable contents.

The container was so old that much of its original red and gold floral(花纹的) colors had faded. Not only Martha’s fingers had gripped it there, but her mother’s and her grandmother’s had, too. Martha didn’t know for sure, but she felt that perhaps even her great-grand-mother had used this same container and its “secret herb”. All Ben knew for sure was that shortly after he’d married Martha, her mother had brought the container to Martha and told her to make the same loving use of its contents as she had.

Whatever was in that container, it sure worked, for Ben felt Martha was the best cook in the world. Anyone who ever ate in their house greatly praised Martha’s cooking.

But why wouldn’t she let Ben touch that little container? It was so fine whenever Martha sprinkled (撒) it over the food she was preparing. She obviously had to use very little of it because there was no way of refilling the container.

Ben became increasingly eager to look into that container just once, but never brought himself to do so.

Then one day Martha became ill. Ben took her to the hospital, where they kept her overnight. When he returned home, he felt extremely lonely. Martha had never been gone overnight before. When it neared supper time, he wandered into the kitchen to see what might be in the refrigerator. Then the container on the shelf immediately came into view. He quickly looked away, but his curiosity drew him back.

Ben looked away again and lifted the cover of a large cake pan on the kitchen counter.

Ben reached down for the paper, his big rugged hand struggling to get inside.