The cucumbers came back as mulch

Last night they were in the greenhouse again, but soft, brown, breaking apart in my hands like good compost. No anger about the blight or the way they went limp on me last August — just the quiet work of turning over. I woke up and checked the empty pots, and for once I didn't feel the old bitterness. Maybe that's what forgiveness is, at this hour: less letting go, more letting rot.