Yesterday was another good day in the yard. The old concrete water trough I’d turned into a pond with a fountain had fallen into disrepair. The pump died. And I just let things lie. The water evaporated and there was mud in the trough. I cleaned it out yesterday. Bought a new pump. Purchased a length of tubing. Restacked the rock of the waterfall. Filled the trough with water. I’m in business again. The music of falling water is back.

All this reminds me of the days when my wife’s dementia was worsening, and my refuge was the yard. Her attendant would come for the day. I’d head outside. Most of the time I was digging khaki weed, but I did other things. It was the same when she went into memory care. It was me and the yard. Digging, plucking, pulling, planting, tending. The yard was my life, and I was keeping it together. Maybe, subconsciously, I thought there was some sort of hope. As if she’d get better and I needed things ready when she came home. But I was living in the land of false hope. I think I lived there for a good while after she passed, too, flopping around like a fish out of water, as if some magic cure was there to be found.

But gradually I came to realize no fairy godmother was coming to lay a hand on my head and bestow happiness. That was my job. And this last week or so, with my big day of melancholy and my good days of work, I have hope I’ve found the ground beneath my feet, a place to stand on my own and launch a new life in whatever time is left. I’ll be surrounded by friends, with peace in my heart. It certainly feels like it this morning. And did I mention my granddaughter finished third yesterday in the 300-meter hurdles of the high school division of the Victor Lopez Invitational at Rice University? No? She did. I’m happy.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale