I dig into the dirt as if it is a language I once spoke fluently and then forgot, my hands remembering before my mind does. The soil is cool and dark, smelling like rain that hasn’t happened yet. I turn it over with my fingers instead of a shovel because I want to feel the ground respond to me, to know where it resists and where it opens. This garden is meant for wildflowers, the kind that do not ask permission to exist. They bloom because they must.

I imagine the seeds as people I have known, or perhaps as the ways people have loved me. The coneflower is steady affection, upright and patient, offering its color without bending too much. It reminds me of someone who loved by staying, by being present even when nothing dramatic was happening. The black-eyed Susan is brighter, almost insistent, a laughter-first kind of love that fills a room and refuses to apologize for its joy. I plant it shallow, knowing it wants to be seen. The poppy is more fragile, its affection brief but intense, a touch that feels like a confession whispered too late. I handle those seeds carefully, as if they might bruise under the weight of my expectations.

As I dig deeper, my fingers begin to strike rock. At first it is occasional, a dull knock that I work around, but soon there are too many. Stones wedge themselves under my nails, press sharply into my knuckles. I try to pry them loose, but they resist, and my frustration rises hot and fast. I wanted soft ground. I wanted ease. But the rocks scrape my skin open in small, unremarkable ways. Thin cuts appear across my hands, and dirt immediately fills them, darkening the red into something brown and indistinct. It stings, not enough to stop me, just enough to remind me that this is work, that wanting something to grow does not mean the ground will cooperate.

I pause, hands trembling slightly, and feel the grit embedded in my palms. I think about how affection can hurt like this too—how loving someone often means pressing against what refuses to move, accepting the small injuries that come from trying anyway. The soil does not apologize. It only exists as it is. I wipe my hands on my jeans and keep digging, slower now, more deliberate, acknowledging each rock before deciding whether to remove it or leave it be. I return to the flowers. The lupine, tall and reaching, is an ambitious love, the kind that believes in future versions of you. It wants depth, so I dig carefully around the stones instead of forcing them out. The daisy is simple affection, uncomplicated and honest, content with less space, content with being exactly what it is. I scatter its seeds freely, trusting them to find their place. The milkweed, essential and often overlooked, reminds me of quiet devotion—the love that supports others without being noticed, the kind that sustains entire ecosystems of feeling.

As the garden takes shape, I begin to understand the rocks differently. They are not obstacles alone. They break up the soil so roots do not drown. They create pockets of air, channels for water, pathways that guide growth upward instead of letting it sprawl and rot. The stones that cut my hands will anchor the roots when the wind comes. They will force the flowers to grow around them, to stretch toward the light with intention.

I press the soil back down, feeling its weight, its truth. My hands ache, marked and dirty. I realize that affection is not about removing every hard thing. It is about learning which resistances matter, which pains are instructive, which rocks are there not to stop growth but to shape it. When I stand and look at the bare earth, I can already see the future colors leaning upward, generous and unafraid, growing liberally because the ground asked them to try harder.