The Golden Garden

A year later, the backyard on Elm Street is unrecognizable. The tall privacy panels are gone, replaced by a low white picket fence that lets the afternoon light spill clear across the grass. Where the pool used to sit, there's a garden now, rows of sunflowers taller than I am, leaning gently in the summer breeze.

Mrs. Callahan sits at the head of a long picnic table, sharing watermelon with half the neighborhood's kids. I'm at the grill in an apron Ellie painted for me, and Ellie herself is tearing across the lawn chasing Scout, our new golden retriever puppy, who is significantly better at catching tennis balls than he is at not falling into the flower beds.

The nightmares that used to wake her most nights stopped months ago. What's left is just a ten-year-old, sunburned and laughing, completely unguarded in a way I used to wonder if I'd ever see again.

She catches the puppy, scoops him up, and runs over to lean against my side, cheek pressed to my arm the way she used to when she was small enough to carry.

"Thank you for coming to get me that day," she says quietly, like she still needs to say it sometimes.

"I will always come for you," I tell her, and mean it with everything I have left. "No matter what. No matter where."

She grins, kisses my cheek, and takes off again into the sunflowers with Scout barking at her heels, and for the first time in longer than I can measure, the only thing buried in that yard is a garden.