The diner was nearly empty. Winter in a beach town — the only people left are the ones who stay year-round, like me.
I sat down at my usual booth. A woman came over a minute later, looking at her phone, then at me. ‘They double-booked us,’ she said. ‘Mind if I join?’
I didn't mind. I don't get asked for company much anymore. Not since my wife passed.
I had a seed packet on the table — it was in her coat pocket, still there from two springs ago. Past its plant-by date by a year. I don't know why I carry it.
The woman asked what it was. ‘Dianthus,’ I said. ‘My wife’s favorite. She never got to plant them.’
I also had a free trial ending that day — some meditation app she had wanted me to try. I hadn't opened it once. I was saving it, maybe, like I was saving the seeds for a season that would never come.
‘Can I see that?’ she asked, pointing at the packet. I handed it over. She turned it in her hands. ‘They’re still good,’ she said. ‘If the soil’s warm enough, they’ll take.’
She was a gardener. Off-season for her too. She offered to help me plant them. I said yes.
I guess the first time you plant something after, it feels like stealing from the dead. But maybe it's just warming the soil for what comes next.