In the garden

It is a lovely day to work in the little garden that borders our house. My daughter Mary is here. We got out the trowels and scissors and cut back the brown daffodil leaves, transplanted errant columbine and volunteer lilacs. Amid the heavy growth of utilitarian hosta and ferns are the flowers planted over past Mother's Days, popping up tall and strong. Orange wallflowers, violet monarda,  chocolate heuchera. We remember the years they were planted, times of transition when we were living together, repairing breaches, healing wounds. Each green thing, having survived another wintry season, starts again further ahead than where it ended the year before. A healthy garden takes on it's own life, making room for the new plants, shielding them from the heat of the day. The older plants fade away, barely leaving a trace until the new plants, finally mature, can hold their own. In the garden, there is life and death, memories, joys, successes and failures. There is always the close smell of the earth, the worms, the seeds, the hidden bulbs. We dig and remember and laugh and plan and hope the days reach all the way to where we are always happy.