“Your yard is your garden now, Ms. Saige,” the judge had replied, not unkindly. “Make the best of it.”
The garden isn’t the same without you. The cucumbers are lonely. I’m sending you some seeds—the good ones, from my secret stash. Don’t tell anyone. Also, I may have accidentally thrown a rotten zucchini at that horticulturist who framed you. It felt appropriate. silvia saige - the house arrest
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she’d said when the bailiff fitted the ankle monitor. The device was a sleek, gray band that blinked a slow, accusing blue light. “I can’t even go to the community garden?” “Your yard is your garden now, Ms
And somewhere behind her, a robin sang.
“You know,” the bailiff said, snipping the band, “most people can’t wait to get out of here. You look almost sorry to see it go.” The cucumbers are lonely
Hang in there. Thirty more days. You’ve got this.