AUGUST

Much of my garden has come and gone by now. Each blossom having had its glorious moment – truly just a day or a few – then either dying to self or being cut for a vase or picked and occasionally eaten. The trajectory is similar to the rolling wave that fun people do in a stadium – the rise and fall with arms raised overhead – then they sit and resume watching the game. They celebrate the game and their togetherness in that way. Maybe the flowers do the same. I mean, maybe they watch the game. 

Maybe they witnessed my comings and goings. If so, then they noted my zealousness at the beginning of the growing season when I purchased that Big Yellow Bag of Pine Island Black Soil, and the passion I had for planting seeds in late April and early May. I tried snow peas this year, lots of them that fed a family of rabbits, and borage that bloomed a scrumptious blue after the groundhog went away. In late May and early June, my perennials watched me tucking sprouts from the Garden Club sale around them – honeywort with it’s purple alien-like bells, calendula, marigolds, and lots of other annuals – I’d bore you if I listed every herb and flower. My passion was great, you see, in May and June.

Then I went away for a week. I’m sure they noticed. The temperatures were in the 90’s, the sun was relentless, and only I knew what plants were new and needed extra water to take hold. So, while I had a fabulous time in Northern California where the weather was cool, the adventure was fun, and the love of family was real, my garden nearly died of thirst. I had to discard some and plant anew.

Then, on the first of July, I wonder if they noticed that Maggie was suffering. Maybe they even called to her to come and lie down in the garden. The wildflower patch was overgrown – leggy and crowded with soft yarrow and daisies and echinacea, and that’s where our little pup chose to lay down to die. 

Of course, we weren’t ready for that. We schlepped her around to an emergency clinic and a couple of vets during which time I was not available to weed and water as I tended to our withering little girl. On the 10th of July, Maggie died, and I ripped out all of the wildflowers. Did they understand my reaction?

Well, she’s buried there now beneath the coral bells and white phlox I planted in her honor in a sweet little wooden box we ordered from the crematorium catalogue. The yarrow is growing back now too, and the garden has another glorious burst of color, another rise, from the late bloomers.

[AUGUST is a stream of consciousness piece prompted by a Write From Your Heart class. It was unexpected and, for me, cathartic as I’ve been grappling with aging and loss. I share it with you essentially unedited as words from the heart seldom need much revision.]