The Day After

Carl and I spent Memorial Day in the garden, moving rocks, digging, planting, connecting to the land. Sometimes, it’s too painful to remember and yet, even without intentionally going about it, we do.

I remembered my father. My aunts. My grandmothers. There they were, with me, in the garden. I did have a moment. After all, the ache of remembrance is not the advise of a living person. I could not ask, “Do artichokes like to be planted near dill?” or “What is this bushy plant that looks like I intentionally put it here?” or “Why did the Bleeding heart I got from you not survive the winter?”

No response. Just the sense of them there in my garden, and the memory of them in theirs as I planted the tiny sprouts of flowers that I succeeded in sprouting: Elecampane, (good for whooping cough); Ashwagandha, (combats stress and anxiety) and Astragalus (boosts the immune system). Only time will tell if the plants will live to heal.

Memories. You don’t even know to expect them until there they are, in your head. Along with the inch wide welts on one’s forehead, the consequence of a black fly swarm while planting sunflowers.

Yesterday was a stunningly, beautiful sunny day. And today? A stunningly, beautiful rainy one. Mother Nature’s gifts. I try not to take them fore-granted.