I’ll never forget the day the garden died.
I began each day with a stroll through the foliage, taking note of new buds, propping up toppled stalks and brushing insects from the leaves they were devouring. I knew the garden like I knew the lines of my own face.
That morning, the soil felt odd and somehow sticky. Some of the plants were covered in a film of what looked like yellow pollen. I brushed it off–and spent all day trying to wash that yellow stain from my fingers.