Grayed over and dried out is the final act of an empty and dying garden atop a bed of infertile soil.

Even knowing this to be true and having watched through her window for years as the colors faded and the possibilities withered with each setting sun, the woman in the house with no children just kept planting seeds.

She did this every season in the hopes that something might one day grow strong enough to stand on its own and bloom brighter than she ever could.

But nothing ever did.

“Better to try and fail and not always wonder what might have been,” she would say to herself on hands and knees, toiling away in the dirt with gritted teeth and a heart that had broken and sewn itself back together so many times she’d forgotten how it once felt to have it all in one piece.

A comback post

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