what grows

My neighbor sweeps the sidewalk every morning.

Even in the winter. Even in the rain. Even when it’s not her trash. She’s lived on this block for over 50 years, long before “landmark district” meant anything to the city. She’s sharp as ever, and she plants something new in her yard every spring like it’s nothing. The kind of woman who knows what kind of summer it’ll be based on the bees.

When she saw me outside one weekend, standing in my yard with a coffee and the vague look of someone wondering how much topsoil costs, she called over:
“It’s a good house, baby. You gotta take care of it.”
And then, for emphasis: “The block too.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Owning a home is one thing. Committing to where you live is another. And somewhere between Googling “low-maintenance flowering plants” and pulling weeds, I started to understand what she meant.

There’s something sacred about tending to a patch of earth in a city that never stops moving. Something radical about choosing softness—planting flowers, painting your gate, greeting your neighbors by name—in a place that’s most often defined by grind and grit.

This is the third year of planting things here. Not just herbs in windowsills, but real soil-under-the-nails, shoes-by-the-door gardening. I’m trying. I’m learning what grows. The cattails are spreading, the rosemary is holding on, and I may drowned a fern—but things are growing. Slowly. Quietly. The way most good things do.

My neighbor waved at me the other morning, broom in hand, and pointed to my yard.

“Better,” she said, with a nod.

Better.

—L