Every spring my mother and I would plan each other's gardens. A Joseph's Coat rosebush - petals altering from pink to orange to yellow - in her front yard. An indigo Butterfly Bush for the hedge next to my driveway. Tulips and Lillies for the borders and the glorious annuals to spill over terracotta pots.
Her absence this year made me lazy. Or perhaps I didn't have any nourishment left for my garden. I didn't buy any new flowering shrubs, didn't split the Tiger Lilly bulbs, didn't prune the Lilacs. I only potted half a dozen Cannas from bulb, hoping they would flame into bloom in the small corners of my garden. Somehow they did, despite my shoddy fertilizing and negligent watering. Were she here they would have feasted on egg shells and decaying banana peels. They and the other critters she tolerated in her yard.
Her death reminds me that healing comes in waves. 7 months later I still have a lot of grief in me. But nature is kinder if you pay attention to her symbolic story. Magic trumps sorrow. Take my century old Cherry Tree, the one Duke lounges atop its crusty branches like a Cheetah at high noon. The rains have stripped away all her leaves. But this week as we enjoy an early Indian summer the tree burst into bloom.
This story I understand.
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