It was in the crooked lines around his grey eyes as he stepped out from the room next to my Rukshi’s.
I stood in the sterile hallway with our anniversary vase, which held limp, unworthy tulips.
He said, “They take good care of Isobel.”
Later, I spied the woman kneeling in his front yard look up and smile as he parked.
She dead-headed his blue hydrangeas as I drove by unseen.
I saw him the next day, after I’d quietly placed a fresh arrangement on her bedside table.
I wanted to say, “I also have someone tending the garden at home.”