I moved back to Wisconsin in 2014. My front yard garden was planted with several things I didn’t care for, random choices that felt more like leftovers than a plan. A tall cactus stood awkwardly like an uninvited guest. Nearby, a bush resembled Pampas grass, except it wasn’t. Nothing flowed. Nothing belonged. The whole yard looked as though the plants had been tossed there in a hurry, each one competing for attention without harmony.

One day, while wandering the garden center at Fleet Farm, I found a spirea bush I loved. Its name hinted at the warm autumn colors it would show in fall. I brought one home and planted it proudly. My husband adored it instantly and guarded it as if it were a rare treasure. When my sister asked for a cutting, he actually stood on the front porch to ensure she didn’t take more than a polite snippet.