My mother was struggling with the row of marigolds she had planted to line our driveway on Van Dyke Road. Water more? Water less? She wasn’t sure. She stood puzzled, garden hose in hand. I stood beside her, confident with the answer, my banana seat bike balanced between my legs.

“You just have to pray more,” I said.

“What?”

“Like Mrs. Musik,” I replied.

Mrs. Musik had the most coveted lawn and garden on Van Dyke Road. The grass emerald green. Each blade the same height. Row after row of beautiful flowers. Every color. One brighter than the next. All at attention. Pushing toward the sky. We weren’t allowed on it. The free-for-all of running across lawns and driveways and through screen doors didn’t apply here. But this prohibition didn’t make it any less beautiful. I often pushed the break pedal of my bike, slowing down, sometimes even stopping, just to watch her, bent over, kneeling in front of the flower bed, hands reaching out, covered in dirt.

“What makes you think she is praying?” My mother asked.

“Because I’ve seen her,” I said and described her on bent knee.

“I think she’s weeding.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, she’s taking out the weeds. Getting through all the bad stuff, so the good things can grow.”

Neither of us quite sure of which word we were describing, I guess I still hold it as my definition. Releasing the bad thoughts, making room for the good things to grow. I garden daily through the negativity of my heart and brain, making room for the bloom. You can call it whatever you like, I suppose, but I know when my hands are dirty and my heart is clean, something good will come of it. Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.