The morning after my Opa died, I woke up in his house and looked out over the garden. Everything was still there: the zinnias, the rose bush, the fig and apple trees, the path he laid, the compost pile. How strange it felt to sense his presence in all these living things.

Many years ago, my Opa's parents divided their small city garden into six parts, one for each of their children to take care of. The garden became a shared responsibility. With that responsibility came care, and with care, beauty.

That garden made me think about all the land around us. Perhaps we cannot move through a place without leaving something behind. Like a snail, we leave a trace simply by being there. We plant, tend, build, walk, dig and shape. Some traces take root and become part of a landscape long after we are gone.