Part 10 — What Grows from Waiting
Spring settled in slow, like it was being careful not to disturb anything.
The meadow behind the cabin warmed day by day.
The pine tree—Barnie’s tree—stood quiet and proud, its needles whispering in the afternoon wind.
Walter still sat on the porch most mornings, coffee in hand, facing the ramp.
It had become a habit now, even though he no longer heard paws behind the door.
He kept the toys on the mantel—the monkey, the squirrel, and a collar faded to the soft gold of an old coin.
Not because he couldn’t let go.
But because some things don’t need to be buried to be at peace.
Three weeks after Barnie’s last sunrise, a letter arrived.
It was handwritten, the ink slightly smudged, with a return address from Bozeman.
Dear Mr. Hines,
I can’t stop thinking about that day on your porch, about Barnie—and about what it meant to see him again after all those years. I wish I had come sooner. I wish I had stayed longer. But mostly, I’m just grateful he found you.
Enclosed are a few seeds. My brother and I planted these when we were kids—wild daisies, I think. They grew like weeds. He used to say they were “sunny even on sad days.” Maybe they’ll find a place near the tree.
With love and gratitude,
Amy Caldwell
Walter read it twice, then carried it out back.
He stood at the grave beneath the pine, knees stiff but steady, and opened the small paper pouch.
The seeds were tiny, almost weightless, but he cupped them like they mattered.
Then, without a word, he knelt and pressed them gently into the soft earth.
He didn’t need to mark the spot.
He knew it by heart.
That evening, a breeze lifted across the porch.
Walter sat with a blanket across his knees.
No dog beside him.
But still, he reached down and patted the wood as if he were.
Some habits didn’t fade.
Some comforts didn’t leave.
He rocked slowly as the light dimmed.
And when the first stars blinked through the twilight, he said, to no one and to everything:
“Still watching, boy?”
Summer came, and with it, the daisies.
Not in neat rows, not like a garden.
They sprouted crooked and wild—just as they were meant to.
Little bursts of white and gold pushing through memory and mulch.
And every time Walter passed by, he touched one gently and smiled.
Because love doesn’t end when the barking stops.
It keeps blooming—in soil, in stories, in soft footfalls that never really leave the porch.
—THE END 🌼🐾