The rented house is old and cold and small. I did not choose the house, but chose the field. An old man loved it once and built this wall now tumbled down and littered with the yield of that old plum. I scrape away the weeds, pile up dead leaves. I hear my Grandpa's voice and smell damp earth. He says, ''What this yard needs is lilac and hard work.'' And I rejoice in his advice. I plant. I rake. I hoe. A daffodil, a penny, and a bee are my reward today. I stop. And so perspiring, tired from work and sun, I see the two men there together in the shade smiling, admiring this garden they have made.

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