Out in the driveway, the paper looks like a leg of lamb in a plastic bag. Yesterday afternoon, in the flowerbed beneath the big window of this room, I planted begonias, forty-eight in number, some pink, some white, all with shiny green leaves. Begonias love that spot, for the sun they receive during the first part of the morning and for the cooling shade the rest of the day. I tried geraniums there three years ago. They did well too, although they would have been happier with a bit more sun. Then the worms got them. But before they did, I liked the way the spent blooms scattered themselves along the walk, red and white and pink on grainy gray. The image reminds me of blood on a boy’s sweatshirt: upon noticing it, he no longer remembers what made him bleed. Later, though, his mother, standing at the washing machine, knows full well the stain was made by salmon eggs from their last fishing trip. And for some reason this reminds her of their visit to the doctor. Before giving her boy a shot, just as a horn sounded and a cloud cast a shadow on the street, the doctor asked him if he was still taking piano lessons. The boy winced, but didn’t cry; she wondered if Mozart was like that. He played on and on, and then one day the doctor died and was laid forever in his grave. The flowers, he thought, were from his mother’s side. From Adam a stick or root, and from Eve, a love that never dies. Such is life in this grown man’s mind.