Micro Fiction: Gardening

I was never good at gardening. I only started to honour my mother. Tomatoes, green beans, and carrots. I thought of her when I dug in the dirt, watering the seeds with my tears. The next morning all the grass had died. The morning after that, large mounds appeared. I wanted to believe it was due to an overgrown gopher, until the first skeletal hand appeared. It crept out of the earth like a vine, index finger pointing straight up. The others soon followed. Thirteen in total. None of my plants grew. Now I only have a garden of bones.