That was easier than admitting he might know something I did not.
She knew which rosebush needed shade, which tomato plant was sulking, and which corner of the shed held the coffee can full of the screws I swore I would sort one day.
She sang while she worked.
Old Patsy Cline songs, mostly.
Her voice was not pretty in the way people mean pretty, but it was hers, and it filled that yard until even the birds seemed to pause and reconsider their own noise.
Ranger followed her everywhere.
He was a big German Shepherd with coal-black ears, a silver line down his muzzle, and paws heavy enough to announce him on tile before he entered a room.
Ellen called him her second shadow.
I called him spoiled.
He answered to both.
When Ellen died, the house did not become empty all at once.
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