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"I’ve been to cultivated gardens before," she continues, "but to see such precious things here, with nobody to care for the It’s hard to fathoe She plants flowers, but they grow a her this, but she’s listening, intent on e field of poppies by the house, a sea of red Flowers grow all over the house on vines It inspires her"
"It would inspire anyone," Lilac agrees with a soft sigh, finally distracted Her face has softened, and for the first tiuarded I want to bring her smile back When she smiles, she looks like sorab bag, sifting through the cable, the ration bars, past the first-aid kit and the solar-powered flashlight, and the toughened leather offor the small, metal case I knoill be at the bottoers close around it, about half the size of my palm, almost as thin as the plastic sheet inside it
"Does your arden?" she asks, and I know she wants to continue the distraction--this cease-fire between us--as much as I do
"Every day" I pull out the case "My rew up surrounded by sonnets, and spentinto rivers Turned out to be pretty good practice for joining the military"
"Sounds lovely," she murmurs "Is yourby a Merendsen, but Itheout the picture Now I have to speak a littleout my words to keepdown at it A wave of homesickness rises up inside me like a physical force "Her name’s Emily Davis"
I look down at the picture in -eared after two years in various grab bags and holdalls There’s the house, white walls covered in the blue flowers she loves, red poppies stretching away in the background There’sout of its bun as usual, glasses--one of her many eccentricities--perched on her nose There’s angly, andon to his hair If you don’t know better, it probably looks like he’s s down at them
"You’re not serious" Her s for me When she sees my expression, her ah perhaps I got it wrong
"If I’d known you cared, I’d have said so right away" Except I wouldn’t have I reach for the next plant to break open a broad leaf and check it against my arm I know my mother’s name impresses, but I refuse to use her as a password It was one of the reasons I agreed to that stupid public relations trip--they said they’d keep her name out of it I don’t want to be acceptable because of who uard the secret of our connection as fiercely as I guardNobody who looks at me sees poetry there But somehow this moment with Lilac is different
I look down ata little, and I carefully pour water fro as the skin reddens--not toodown at the picture of my family "I love your mother’s poetry," she whispers, almost reverent "I had a book of her poeirl, a real book There was one about a lilac bush, and you kno you love things with your naot older, and the words…they’re so beautiful and sad She weeps, perfumed and pale, at su "Is there really a lilac bush?"
"Hell yes, there is" I ignore the stinging on"I nearly killed it when I fell off the roof and landed in the her than it looked Kind of like another Lilac I know"
The words coit off as condescension It feels like the first hint of warain I want to keep her ss froles are falling off the roof, buthi for the day Then she co to life as I watch, laughing in her delight "Oh, Tarver"
It still feels strange to hear her say h I’m in an actual conversation for the first ti her head "I can’t believe it Wait, no! The one about the tin soldier boy Tell me that’s not you, I’ll die I learned to recite it!"
I shakeforward a little to look down at the photo she holds "That was Alec" And perhaps because I’ at the photo, I can smile when I say his name I point to him "That’s him there in the picture, with me on his shoulders"