Her garden was kept in good condition. Each rose buried in sand, each petal without a scar. Those roses had memories: given on a porch from a shaky, sweaty hand, given on a dinner date, and given on special holidays. Each rose was snipped, its stems cut and flowers preserved. Like her own library, its stories contained in a wooden box full of sand. And she would look back and read them every so often, when the weather was dull or the family out of town, so she could remember them and their moments. Oh how beautifully her garden smelled.