One thing Mom and Dad have always had in common is their love for flowers. Wildflowers particularly, but any flowers are a treat. I remember, when I was a kid, Dad would get up early and go for a hike on the mountain. Probably to take pictures. He would bring back a plethora of flowers from his hike. All kinds. All colors. Whatever was blooming.

Mom would light up and take them inside to the kitchen, where she would arrange them in some of the pottery she collected, or a vase, or a basket. Then she would place them around the house, or on the front porch at the door as a welcome to all who entered. This was a year-round practice. In the winter, there was holly and mistletoe. Summer brought Queen Anne’s lace and black-eyed Susans. Fall was golden rod and sourwood leaves. Spring was forsythia and daffodils. So many flowers, for so many years. It was as regular as breathing.

When Mom moved to memory care, Dad rented a little plot in the raised gardens right outside her unit. It was just big enough to contain some of her favorite flowers. It was his joy, and ours, to push her wheelchair outside in the fresh air of the garden. The raised beds are long and filled with many flowers planted by many residents. As we went, she would babble about all the colorful blooms along the way. She reached for them. She did a lot of smiling. She noticed tiny ants along the stones. She made a scary face when she saw a bee. She giggled at the butterflies. It was our way to still connect and bring her some joy.  

Her garden was marked with a stone I had painted with the words ‘Martha’s Garden.’ She couldn’t read it of course, but I think, at least at first, she knew we had arrived at her place when she saw it. Over the years, not so much, but it still got her out into the fresh air and sunshine. Dad had all of her favorite flowers planted there. The colors were beautiful, and each week we could see the progress as the flowers blossomed. However, we also saw the progress of the disease that is taking Mom from us. She always liked to go outside, but she noticed less and less each growing season. At the end of each season, we prepared the garden for the dormancy by covering it with a tarp and some mulch.

That little plot required more work than you would think. But between us and Dad, we kept the flowers growing. Even after we stopped taking Mom out as often, Dad would still pick flowers and take them in to her. He was sure to tell her they came from Martha’s Garden as he put them in little vases around her room…just like she used to do when he brought her flowers for all those years.

Last July, when Mom broke her leg, there was no more going out to the garden. It became overgrown with weeds, as we focused our attention on Mom’s care. We shut the garden down early. Pulled all the choked-out plants up and got it ready for winter, even though it was still months away. It has sat empty since then.

Now, planting season is right around the corner. None of us have the energy to keep up a garden any longer. Especially since Mom will no longer be able to go out to see it. So, we have given up the garden. There is a waiting list of folks who are wanting a chance to play in the dirt, so it will be well cared for. But, It feels like another step down this road we are on, so there is some grief attached. Seems there is grief attached to everything these days. Another tradition and practice to let go of. It becomes a memory now. A good one, of her happy last days, but it still leaves a hole. A black hole that sucks everything into it. The hole in our broken hearts is getting bigger as we near the end.

Martha’s garden is a metaphor. The cycle of life. The planting, the growing, and the dying. Somehow, seeing the dormant dirt is unsettling. It feels like there should be life there instead of barrenness. It is the same with Mom as she fades. I long for the flowers again, but in their place, there is blankness and pain. We want to fix it of course, to cultivate, to pull out the weeds from her brain. But there is no fixing this. There is only watching the dormancy extend itself and blanket her.

Dad still brings her flowers every week. When she is aware, she smiles like a kid…when she is aware. It is bitter. And sweet. And terrible. And beautiful. And so the story goes…