“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she’d said when the bailiff fitted the ankle monitor. The device was a sleek, gray band that blinked a slow, accusing blue light. “I can’t even go to the community garden?”
She stepped outside for the first time in sixty days. The sun was warm on her face. The ankle monitor lay silent on the porch. silvia saige - the house arrest
As she gazed out at the passersby, she felt a pang of jealousy. They were free to go where they pleased, to live their lives without the weight of a ankle monitor holding them back. She thought about all the things she used to take for granted: a walk in the park, a coffee with friends, a spontaneous road trip. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she’d said
Dear Silvia,
Day three, she made a list. It was a long list. Tomatoes (heirloom, of course), basil (three varieties), marigolds (for the pests), zinnias (for the bees), and a single, absurdly ambitious lemon tree in a pot. She ordered the seeds online—delivery was allowed, as long as she met the courier at the front door with a mask and a six-foot distance. The sun was warm on her face