Next year, in a small black square of loam, I’ll plant a single gleaming seed, sunflower, her favorite, in honour of my grandmother. And if I’m a good boy and say my prayers and tend the seed with care, perhaps I’ll find her there one day, putting down tender green roots in the soil of my garden. Maybe she’ll be young again, and pretty, as in faded black and white photos of her I never saw. And maybe the dark lines of care that etched her face throughout her life in the world will be absent from her garden face. If I bring her water and manure, and keep her in the strong yellow light of the sun, if I visit her each day and pinch back the weeds as they encroach upon the soil around her feet, if I give her as much love in the garden as she gave me in life, perhaps she’ll finally find peace. Perhaps, in a small square of soil a hundred miles from where she lived her human life, I’ll give her the quiet breezes from the Bay of Fundy. I’ll give her the mild nudge of a doe’s nose as she forages at midnight. I’ll give her the sound of my children playing in the rows of raspberries at dawn. I’ll give her in her second life the ease and love she earned in the first.