This afternoon I took a walk to the Rosary Cemetery, the most romantic of Victorian graveyards. It is where festoons of ivy drape themselves over the elaborate tombs, angels peek out from the thick brambles, and epitaphs are slowly eaten away by the elements. It may be overgrown, but not it is not unloved.   Walking along one of the many paths, I came across a young woman asleep on a grave, two empty wine bottles by her side.

Maybe it is easier to leave something that you once found beautiful if you let it slowly die first. A rose whose petals are withered and fading tugs less on the heartstrings than one still in full bloom. My garden has been synonymous with me since I first began it over ten years ago. Once an overgrown and neglected space, it soon became my pride and joy, a sanctuary to escape to when I needed it. When the world was locked down, it was where I retreated to. It kept me sane.

If I were to go through Wild by Cheryl Strayed and highlight all that resonates with me at this moment, I should turn the pages yellow.