My father refused to be a refugee. I turned him into one. I’m remembering his garden.
My father’s garden has evolved over time. He’s retired, and his garden is the place where he reads and writes and now nurtures mostly flowers. He has some that only open their petals at sunset, and whenever I’ve come to visit in the past he would always want me to stay, through sundown and night’s coming, to watch the flowers open. He would laugh, his eyes on me, seeing my enjoyment of their beauty.