He cut into that earth over and over, but no life came. Not one pitiful stem. Soil and water is a messy combination, but those stains can be washed away. The problem was that he longed for it too much, and everyone knows that if you long for something too much it won’t come. That’s just a fact of life, and death. He couldn’t do it, but he sure could stare at her and think about it. Her daffodils only bloom once a year, but life springs in her garden once more than his. His only brought death. They grow from narcissistic things, daffodils, and that’s what he hated. It would always make him greener than the grass on the other side. It turns out he never knew himself back then. All it took was a fifth pint. Four had always seemed enough, but the soil frustrated him that day. When he left those dregs in the pub he realised: good things come easily. The hoe was useful after all. It was the only thing the garden needed. But, then again, nothing fertilises better than a rotting corpse.