Return

It's funny how my garden bloomed and faded, while I was away. I was only gone for a few days to delicious, sunny Florida, where I visited John, my Godfather. 

Looking at John was like looking at my past, straight at my dad. John could be him, except for his eyes. John’s eyes are clear blue, like his mom’s, my dad’s sister. My dad’s were hazel, like mine. John’s eyes light up whenever he laughs, a deep resounding Shields laugh, just like my dad’s did. It made my heart sing to hear that laugh again.

Katie Heath

Back in New Jersey, I walked my front garden, the sky's grey uncertainty hung above me. The early Narcissi, spring's sulfurous heralds, have faded, their desiccated heads drooping to the earth, like crepe paper streamers after a party. Yet, the stand of Katie Heath daffodils, creamy white with a pink corolla, lingered at my weathered, white garden gate, causing me to pause, a wistful smile passing over my face as I thought of my Kate who was only eight when I first set those bulbs in the ground 12 years ago now. I stretched, eyes closed, and inhaled the Miss Kim lilac's honeyed spice filling the air around me in the fading afternoon mist. 

I walked my side garden. A solitary tulip startled me, growing through the tangled branches of the pink azalea that blooms every year in early April, our silent memorial to our little one lost so long ago. I did not plant the tulip there. Some critter must have decided that this tulip bulb, no doubt a tasty morsel, needed to be placed somewhere special for a cold winter’s day, but returned to its rest, foregoing its hunger.

Fairy Wings

I walked my shade garden. A thick red-orange carpet of Epimedium or fairy wings, their blossoms like miniature orchids, has grown under the fringe tree. Far from the small patch it once was, it has spread further and further, finally bumping against the creeping Jenny, who, like my sister, will have none of it.

My circle complete, I cleaned out the fountain, now burbling away on the patio. 

I filled one planter, the lovely lady, with Irish moss. I hope that, as it grows, it falls in front of her face like Celtic curls.  

Gardens and memories, aren't they just? They bloom, fade, and return, like lost laughter and lilac's sweetness on the breeze.

To sleep, perchance to dream.