27

The next day Agatha slaps a postcard on the table with a picture of a seagull in flight.

I flip it over, afraid to breathe.

I notice right off there’s no Dear Cornelia, no Love, Mother, and no return address. I wonder if my mother saw her reflection in the glossy front of the card. I throw it in the trash. Then I pull it out and put it in my pocket and walk out to the garden. My carrot seedlings that I replanted lie withered on the ground. I try to stand them up again by mounding their feet in little hills of dirt.

“Don’t you know you can’t be replantin’ carrots?” Agatha says as she walks up from behind. “Their roots ain’t strong enough to go down deep.”