He put his glass down on a rock and knelt by the garden. He bent over each of the plants, examining their leaves, tamping the ground around them with his fingers. Bent over a red zinnia, he looked almost like he was praying

       

The little fig tree that grew beside the shed. He'd slice open the figs eat the pink fruit out of the middle.

     
     
     
                   

Every autumn, he'd wrap the tree in newspaper and cover it with black plastic to keep it alive through the winter.

 

 through the window earth quiets fury chopped up and politely said