I just stared. They had ransacked Ma’s front garden. The willow tree, the gladioli, the roses, the clusters of delicate red begonias, the purple hyacinth, the cannas and the chrysanthemum, even the proud yellow sunflowers; all gone, destroyed, paved over; a grey mass of concrete and two parked cars.
‘I’m sorry I suggested coming.’
Anthony put his hand on Maya’s shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault.’
When I returned home, I went to the balcony. Under the dusty orange sky I stared across at the plants and Ma’s bay tree. I reminded myself that reality isn’t static; nothing’s fixed or permanent, but I was lucky; Ma had gifted me a garden full of memories.