“Daddy,” my middle daughter said, “for my birthday I want a pretty garden again.” Two years ago, a tiny lump and “Should I have this looked at?” ended with my wife’s memorial service just after Easter. With the time lost to treatment, arguments and constant worry, the garden had been abandoned. My daughter, with her late-April birthday, didn’t realize how painful the memories were. Yet, I began — pulling weeds, turning soil, planting seeds as my hands bled and I wept. Today, a daisy bloomed and tomatoes appeared. Though the garden is a gift for my daughter, I thank her. — Tom Sunstr