I am no gardener

Like lying atop the bed of a browning garden, growing colder as the sun set on more than 60 years of motherhood, more than 70 years of marriage, more than 80 years of life, she wilted.

Like watching a flower that once bloomed bright turn a proud face toward the sunshine before it burned to the ground, we waited for the turn of the season.

Like a winter frost wiping away the fruits of her lifetime of labor, she thinned, turned brittle, and fell.

Like a child afraid of snakes and spiders, I sat silent, sullen, and sinking into the walls watching father fight for a faint flutter of an eyelash, the twitch of her smallest, paling finger, the wisp of a breath.

And just when I was thinking the weeds would win out in the end, I remembered just how deep her roots had grown … and the bouquet of memories she left behind remain as bright and colorful as she always was. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s