On the way to the White Fence

The Queen Anne's Lace is now emerging in the vacant lot that I pass on my way to the white fence and back. Alongside the wild grape vines, the poison ivy, the fledgeling wild fig trees, honeysuckle, and the brambly blackberry bushes, the white weed springs up, cutting me to the quick every year. They were the flowers in my mother's last garden, and when I saw them there, perfectly tended with daisies and roses, I felt a shock, like she was coming back to take care of them at any moment. I always wondered if my dad took care of her flower garden after she passed away, but I'll never ask him. A million questions I'll never ask him because it won't bring her back. But do I believe that she somehow sees me on my walks past the vacant lot full of Queen Anne's lace like I believe she saw me in her garden the day she died? Absolutely. I absolutely do. She sees me remembering her.