a well-kept garden

The taste of sweet tea and the sound of wind chimes beg me to sink deeper into the metal chair on the porch and take a long, cleansing breath. As I inhale slowly, the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers begins to travel to my soul. This routine home visit feels different; I recognize it when my eyes begin to water.

Naturally, all six of us are here: Granny the White Hydrangea, Grandma the Campfire Rose, Mom the Begonia, Bonnie the Miniature Butterfly Bush, Reighan the Shasta Daisy, and myself, sitting in our typical crescent shape. We’ve held this position for at least twenty years, Reighan most recently.

Granny the white hydrangea

“More tea?” Grandma asks. Although her tea is still the most delicious and I can feel the inches piling up on my hips from the amount of sugar, I reluctantly say yes. Telling Granny no is not just a weakness but an insult. I find myself staring at her pale skin. She was ninety-two years old, young and as beautiful as ever. The elegance of it reminds me of a white hydrangea. She is stunning, she returns year after year, even after an illness. As I look at Granny fully, I notice her nails perfectly polished as always and her legs crossed in the most elegant way. Our matriarch is as elegant as ever.

“Thanks for a wonderful breakfast, Grandma,” I tell her. “Always a treat to have your biscuits and gravy.” Even if it’s from a can, I think to myself. Although she tried so hard to protect the evidence with her frail body, we all knew that cookies made from scratch were a thing of the past.

Grandmother the campfire rose

I hear the sweet buzz of conversations melting away. Hours have passed. Then Grandma asks, “Who’s ready for dessert? I made cheesecake.” Again, who can say no? Grandma, what a life of servitude. Sturdy as a campfire rose. The weathered skin and deep lines on her face reveal her lack of attention to herself. There is no glitz or glamour. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Grandma in makeup. So beautiful are the photos of when my mother was a child. This beautiful woman next to her, grandmother. Her wrinkles appeared so fast, her face and hands leathery. A story in each groove. She is old-fashioned comfort, resistant to the plagues of life. To those who have wronged her, she only loves and forgives more. She comes back outside with a cheesecake and two cups of coffee. She is my coffee drinking relative.

Mama the Begonia

As I start to reminisce about summers with Grandma, I hear Mom interrupt, “Michelle, do you need another room?” Clearly, playful sarcasm exists in her voice. I look down to find a clean plate. Like I said, saying no to Grandma or Grandma doesn’t really happen. “Thanks mom,” I murmur under my breath as I give her a slight roll of the eyes. I’ve gone too far once again, but Mom didn’t have to remind me. Complex, complicated, mom is none other than a begonia:

1. It needs a lot of light
2. I hate frost
3. Needs rich, loose soil
4. Allow to dry completely before watering
5. Fertilize Often
6. Remove dead flowers
7. It is not a long life.

The last one hits me hard. Grandma is 92 years old, Grandma 72. Will Mom go that far? I desperately need it to. Life has been hard on her, or has she been hard on her life?

I sit there eating my burger and macaroni and cheese. Bonnie is next to me. We are four and two. Mom has an empty plate in front of her. The feeling of fullness washes over me, Bonnie will soon follow me. Only then does Mom transfer the leftovers from our plates to hers. Now… she will have dinner. Traveling through the years, now I smell gasoline. I look out the kitchen window onto the street and see Mom getting gas out of a broken down car. She then pours it into a can of gasoline that reaches her car in the driveway. She goes to work.

Moments like these would leave most people confused. A little care for herself or others would have gone so far, more lush foliage and more flowers. But I know Mom will accept her less extravagant presence in exchange for the fulfillment she has brought raising two daughters. Giving her grandchildren is one of my most special moments in life. She was born for her role as Nanna.

Bonnie the miniature butterfly bush

“I’ll have another piece,” Bonnie proclaims. Of course you would, if I was five feet tall and weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, I would too. Fortunately the words do not come out. Such sarcasm would only disappoint myself. Frankly, there is no place to criticize this beautiful reflection of the grandmother. Like a miniature butterfly bush, she meets life with a no-nonsense performance. Bonnie is a saint with a cattle prod. She will put anyone in her place but with love. Delightful to the senses, enchanting, never overbearing, like a butterfly bush. She honors her husband with her discretion and her supportive character. Perfectly sis, she’s my God-fearing, wine-loving best friend.

Reighan the Shasta daisy

By now, Reighan has made her way into my arms. His eyelashes flutter softly like the wings of a butterfly. She slowly fades into a sweet dream. “I guess this whole conversation was too boring for Reighan,” Mom suggests. “She enjoys those moments; they will be over before you know it.” Hot Mess Reighan, as she calls herself. My little daisy shasta, pale white skin, bright yellow hair, so small but with such an impact she has on all of us. I run my fingers through her soft hair as her body completely relaxes. “I wish I could build a shield to protect her from the darkness of the world. I’m so envious of her innocence. So perfectly naive,” I express to the women around me. As we all look at this beautiful angel on earth, I say a silent prayer. Lord, bless her with Grandma’s grace, Grandma’s helpful heart, Mommy’s perseverance, and her aunt’s caring nature.

It doesn’t take long and I can see that Granny is slowly following Reighan’s lead. He says goodbye quietly and goes to lie down on the bed. My tears start to pool again. This was it, the different feeling I talked about. Soon, I know it will only be the five of us. How do I prepare for this? And then I remember that the spirit of each of these women is already in my soul. I have them with me wherever I go. My job is to keep watering the garden. If I do this, her flowers will never cease to exist.