She had tried, that first year she had come to the city, when hope blossomed in her heart and the future seemed filled with promise. There was no place for Alice to grow even a single flower-not in front of the brownstone building, where angled cracks only hinted at the earth below, not inside her small dark apartment where the life-giving sunlight would have to traverse an impossibly long distance just to reach her grimy windows. There had been space and light for things to grow at her grandmother’s house-unlike here in the city where even weeds had a difficult time breaking through the ever-present asphalt. And Alice came to believe her grandmother had found the secret to life itself buried deep in the soft black earth. The garden gave forth its best from early spring, when the frost still powdered the ground, until late autumn amidst the flaming leaves. And in the fertile earth hid golden carrot spears and round white onions, layered and pearly. There had been cabbage-sized roses and delicate white pea blossoms. It must have been a legacy from her grandmother who had, long ago, kept a garden of small and neat proportions. Each spring, the urge to plant something-a flower or vegetable or anything that would blossom and produce-pulled at her.
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