south fence, and she tended them every summer after that.
The garden was not formal and not especially planned. It was the garden of a woman who set out what she loved and let it grow as it would. Across forty years it became something particular and impossible to replace: the piled-up choices of four decades of a person who knew her own affections.
She left the lake house to me.
Not to my mother. Not to my aunt. Not to the cousins who had also spent summers there. To
