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ome things come back in spring, and some don’t. The year my father died, the rose he planted did not flower. I left it alone. The next
June it came back with more blooms than it had ever had. I still don’t know what to make of that, except to keep planting.
Loam · Essay
Everything I know about grief I learned in the garden
By Ingrid Solberg · 9 min read
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