Jose Hernandez was a gardener here at the university.
He wasn’t a very good gardener.
He never trimmed the hedges. He never watered the grass. He never weeded the flowerbeds.
Fifty years, he couldn’t do a damned thing right.
When he died, he left all of his money to the university.
“Build a memorial garden for me,” his will said.
So, we did.
It’s over there, in the middle of the parking lot.
We toss all of our dead plants there.
Downed tree limbs and branches.
Every year, we hold a bonfire.
And we start the pile all over again.