My Hiding Place

At the threshold of March, the landscaping crew arrived—quiet stewards of renewal—tending to the roses with careful hands, lifting away the remnants winter had left behind in the garden beds. What had gathered in stillness and cold was, in a matter of hours, gently cleared away. I found myself deeply grateful for those young workers who restored order and readiness, as if preparing the earth itself to welcome spring once more.

Soon, another company will come to anoint the trees and shrubs—guarding them against the unseen threats of insects and disease, and giving special care to the roses, which so deeply need it.

As for me, I lingered in the smaller tasks: cleansing the fountains and birdbath, pulling stubborn weeds, gathering the quiet traces left behind. And in the morning light, something sacred unfolds—the sun pours down new mercies, and the sky, reflected in the clear water, seems to dance with joy.

There is still a bit left for my hands to do—old pots and garden ornaments waiting to be renewed with fresh paint, small touches of beauty yet to be restored. I’ve also reached out to a company to transform that far corner beneath the tree, where time has quietly settled. They will lay new slabs and gently remove the old vegetable garden—no longer a place of harvest, but a little box visited more often by wandering cats than by seeds.

In its place, a new beginning: two standing garden boxes, chosen with hope from Costco, waiting to be assembled. We plan to build them once the city water begins to flow again and the porch is washed clean—because that is where they will now rest, lifted into the light, ready for new life to grow.