And there we were, weeding, weeding and yanking all that evil from our souls.
I knew there needed to be a hyacinth somewhere in my story, but I didn't know where to plant it.
My hands were looking for soil. Everything else was of secondary importance. I had to keep in touch.
There was once a bird which helped me. It pecked. I always knew pecking was innate, an instinct. I've met so many peckers and husbands.
Something about the Garden of Eden. That it isn't really a garden, and I'm not even sure what Eden means. But all the seeds are there, and there is always hope.
Then I start reading this story again, but in a different order, and somehow it still makes sense.
I knew there needed to be a hyacinth somewhere in my story, but I didn't know where to plant it.