Fifty-five years his hands had settled roots and pulled briary weeds. Scratches and hives and when he forgot to put on his wide-brimmed hat those painful cancer spots on his head. But those were all little sacrifices for the advice he gave to the women who brought their ailing houseplants or outdoor roses to him. They always wanted to know what aphid, or mold, or too much of the cheap fertilizer they bought on sale brought those yellow spots or crumpled leaves. And that wasn’t just it, many of them had queries about how to live with their husbands or what to do with those children. He could always give the perfect answer to soothe their woes. An honorable man, he only shook their hands or gave them a light kiss on the cheek when they turned and walked away. He had always wanted more. His only caresses and love making were for the year gathering trees and the perennials that came back season after season. The annuals were like one time visiting tourist. He loved them all. Yet, they did not return the same feelings. A colorful, cold beauty.

In the spring of his thirtieth year in that garden, he heard the first whispers from those dames, “He knows his plants, can tell you the truth about so many things—-but he’s no longer the looker he once was…”

A spade had wrenched his heart. It slipped a little to the left becoming more like stone. He stilled stayed faithful to his words and ladies.

They still came, he told them what to do. But their eyes cultivated his new assistant in his overalls without a shirt, pectorals dripping with sweat. They giggled and cooed and asked how he was doing. He received cupcakes and baskets of home made jam. He never had to offer them anything in exchange. No expert knowledge, just a flirt from snappy tongue or winking eye.

From him, they still wanted to know how to solve their problems with flora or family fauna. He still answered. Sometimes as sage, sometimes as spurned lover. An idea came, dark from that rocky heart cooled down with a layer of moss. He had a sale of herbs from that spring’s newly tilled plot. They all asked just how they should be used when he gave them rootings and seeds. For the most delicious of cuisines, he’d laugh and smile. Often they wanted a bunch from his garden, but he said he couldn’t allow it, it was against the city’s ordinances. So, those women placed those seeds of roots in their own gardens at home. Three seasons went by, then they were ready to make their tea and pot pies. The spiciest ingredient: lies.

He waited. He watched. His fifty-sixth year came filled with the planting of bodies in the sepulchral gardens. He always brought the most beautiful of bouquets and whispered their names with a wee bit of honest advice.