If not, winter

She had always wanted a garden in the whole backyard, to have the tools for self-sustainability and nourishment just a backdoor thresh hold away. He seemed reluctant to indulge the idea, thinking of resale value not arable land at their fingertips.

That spring, they worked on it together, building a foundation primed for new growth. He was reluctant, still. She wondered what the fuss was about. She planted the seeds and awaited the fresh nourishment, the fruits of their labor.

Her garden was abundant with momentary delectables and freshness and contemplation. It was the grounding in her summer days as she cultivated that space as it cycled through harvesting and new starts. She savored every moment, every bite, allowing it to fill her up with its vibrant lessons. He wondered what the fuss was about.

By the first freeze, the fall harvest, the gourds and squashes, had been piled up by the back door, ready for the oven. The beds had been covered and tucked in with debris from the summer. By snowfall, she barely went back there. The back door stayed locked, even though there were still some winter squash piled near the door, what remains of the summer garden.