English Garden

I have a black and white photograph
of my great-grandparents.
Their daughter gave it to me.

“He looks normal.” I say. He smiled
for the picture. “She looks
tired,” the daughter responds, knowing
the reasons.

The woman in a petite, patterned dress sewn
by hands too old for his eyes; remnants
of vows tying hands to secrets. An English
garden, the heart of her homeland.

Rose and Mary, unmarried and un-married.