I always used to complain about helping you in the garden, didn’t I? You know I didn’t mean it, just couldn’t admit to you that I was beginning to enjoy it. But it was only because I was with you. I used to love the way you’d talk so passionately about it, and it didn’t matter that I had no clue what you were talking about. I remember sowing the foxglove seeds with you last summer. You told me they were biennials, so would bloom next year. I said, “Good, then we won’t have to plant any bloody more!”

But now I wish you were out here with me.

The weeds are overrunning the garden. Quackgrass, bindweed, henbit, dodder, crabgrass and purslane have shot up and are sprawling all over the place. I did a bit of research on the internet, found out their names when trying to find out how to get rid of them.

At first I just yanked them out, and thought that would be the problem solved. But just removing what could be seen didn’t work. It was growing beneath the surface, undetected for too long. Like the cancer inside you.

Remember when we sat out here after your operation? How we thought it was all over, and we talked about getting the whole family round. We didn’t have a chance to plant this Spring, so you were thankful for the perennials. The Black Eyed Susan that wouldn’t let you down. The faithful coral bells and the pretty peonies would do you proud, you said. They aren’t doing as well as we hoped. Where the weeds have grown tall around them they’re starved of light. When the rain falls the weeds fight for the water. All the advice says get the weeds whilst they’re small, but we didn’t even have time to look out here when they started to appear.

But I’m fighting back. I looked at some pesticides. Total Kill sounded like it would do the job, but I didn’t want to lose what we’d planted together. The house is lonely and dull without you, I don’t want death in your garden too. Zap It sounded just as bad.

I’ve got your little trowel though, and I’m getting right in there. Digging them up and pulling all the roots up. Not leaving a trace. I’m being careful too –that’s why it’s the trowel and not the fork and spade. You’d never forgive me if I damaged your hostas.

Why couldn’t they get the cancer out, Sal? Pulled out the roots and sorted you out? It’s not right, me out here on my own, without you. But I’m not giving up. I’ll keep digging them weeds out, roots and all. I’ll make you proud of this garden. But, you know, they say you can never completely get rid of the weeds, that they keep on coming back, and in a way I’m glad. I mean, what else am I going to do with my time now?