We watered our flowers. Every day. Unwound the hose from its plastic spinny frame that creaked everytime the handle hit 2 o’clock. The faucet groaned as it started to wake, weathered with years of rust, its watermarks like rings on an old oak tree. We would watch as the hose swelled with water, impressed by the forward motion, all of its force. He held the hose as I watched sitting in the shade, pulling sticky blades of grass from my legs, having sacrificed themselves to my gravity. Violets and tulips. Peonies my favorite, daisies his. He would join me when the work was done. Water’s momentum halted. Flowers full. And we would lay, heads to the sky, hands entwined. Our bodies indented in the ground.