This time, I scanned in the cover of the chip, isolated the multi-colored cross itself, and posted just that to the religious bulletin boards with a query as to what faith it came from. I flagged the file as urgent. While I was waiting for a reply, I brewed myself a soykaf and stared out at the rain. It was pounding down on Mama G’s garden, bending and muddying the plants. I could imagine the state they’d be in after a few months without her to tend them, and I blinked back tears. We’d had her body cremated and then scattered her ashes in her garden. I’d made a silent promise then and there to my adopted grandmother that I would tend the plants as best I could. But I didn’t have her green thumb. A part of me knew that the garden would soon return to the weed-choked state it had been in when Mama G arrived. It would be as if she had never lived here. Her efforts would be gone, erased. Just as she had been.