They stand ready in the garden at the bottom of the hill, these two mannequins clothed in silk dresses. Had she been a gardener, my mother would have done the same. No scarecrows for her. And maybe she did have a hand in it. They were never there before. I have walked past this garden for years. It would be easy to explain away the magic. New tenants perhaps, but I prefer my own explanation — both my mother and mother-in-law passed within a year’s time — now, together, they are dressed to the nines in the ease and rest of the bottom of the hill. 

You can say it’s foolish to believe such things, but don’t tell my legs. Each day when I see them, the ease and strength that springs me back up that hill can’t be denied. And that’s what I choose to believe in. Maybe that’s what we all choose to believe in — whatever gets us back up the hill. 

I have a tiny mannequin behind my desk. I bought it years ago and gave it to my mom as a symbol of the strength she gave to me. Whatever she was going through, she got up, got dressed (beautifully) and faced the day. Who am I not to do the same? Sure I stumble. I get wet, and muddy, and tired, and scraped in life’s bloom, but then I see the signs, I see them, and I am welcomed to the garden.