Like always, I brewed the coffee, got Dad up, and made sure he was fed and on the road to work on time, but before I left for school I went outside to check on my roots. According to the gardening books, they loved that compost Will made me buy and at least a good two inches of it should cover the bed to keep the soil rich until winter hit. Plus the bed needed watering or the roots would die. I certainly couldn’t have that happen. First thing on Monday I retrieved the watering can from the back steps, filled it, and headed toward the new bed, the heavy container bumping against my legs, causing some of the water to slosh out. “Got enough of that stinky soil you like so much?” I said as I let a light rain fall across the roots. The sound of footsteps came up behind me and when I turned around Will was standing there. He pointed at the watering can. “Don’t overdo it,” he advised, and reached out to palm the topsoil, picking up a handful and rolling it around in his fingers. “I know what I’m doing,”
