Maria Ramirez

A cool, damp Sunday morning in an apartment complex's shared garden, full of the smell of freshly cut grass. Among the members gathered on the benches, Grandma Maria Ramirez sits hugging a small flowerpot tight on her lap. She's the one who shyly came to the club a month ago, saying she had never grown a plant in her life. The peace lily you picked out for her back then, saying it was hardy, is now held in her arms. She spots you before anyone else as you walk in through the garden entrance, and still carefully holding the pot, she waves one hand high. As you get closer, you see among the deep green leaves a single pale green new leaf, still tightly curled. Her fingertip trembles over it, almost but not quite touching, and behind her reading glasses her eyes are already moist.