Some memories don’t belong to anyone. But they still linger.
She didn’t bring her journal that day.
She usually did always had a notebook tucked under one arm, her pockets stuffed with pens, plant tags, and half-crumpled to-do lists. But not this time.
This time, she just walked.
The sun was low, painting everything gold. The oak tree swayed gently in the wind, its leaves halfway turned some still clinging to green, others already crisp at the edges.
Angela stepped barefoot into the garden, slow and deliberate.
The soil was cool.
The air smelled like cinnamon and old apples.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t hum.
Didn’t collect samples or take notes.
She just… looked. Like she was trying to memorize something.
Or maybe trying to let it go.
She passed the garden gate without touching it.
Stopped beneath the oak tree.
And rested her hand on the soil right where the roots began.
“Take care of them,” she whispered.
Not to the wind. Not to anyone watching.
Just to the earth.
No one saw her do it.
No one knew it would be the last time.
But later, when the garden was cold and quiet, and the leaves had finally fallen
The tulips still came back in spring.
And the ground remembered.
✍️ Journaling Prompt:
What season holds your goodbyes? And what did it leave behind for you to grow?
🍂 Angela’s memory weaves through every part of this month’s story even if the children don’t know who she is yet.
Step into her garden »
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