Her grandmother's garden looked like a meadow. Everyone said Rosa had a gift for letting things grow wild.
After the funeral she found the notebooks. Thirty years of grid paper, each square a foot of soil. Every lupine marked by name. Every foxglove positioned in the lupine's July shadow. Every wild carrot left in place because its taproot broke the clay where the drainage needed to go.
None of it had been wild.
The last notebook was half-empty. The final entry, three years before Rosa died: Stopped weeding section C. It held.
She walked out to section C. It looked like every other part of the garden. The foxglove stood exactly where the lupine's shadow fell. The carrot grew where the water wanted to go.
She couldn't tell if Rosa had been arranging the garden or documenting it.