I pushed away my tears and shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket. My boots pounded on the pavement, the heels echoing loudly, as I started the 4-block walk home. The neighborhood between their duplex and my tiny house was deserted, normal for a Sunday morning in this town. Manicured lawns marked the few apartment complexes I passed, rose bushes and ferns marking the landscaped edge of the property, woody bark dust surrounding their roots. I stopped. The soft fern and thorny roses were a good match. They co-existed in rocky or poor soil. But the bark dust protected the roots, so the elements didn't destroy the plants. Take away the bark dust, and they would be left exposed, forced to weather the storms. Would they be okay without the bark dust? Would they survive? Were their roots deep enough? A sob choked in my throat. He didn't remember. I managed to hold in my sobs until I let myself in my house.
