Mum's Pretty Garden: 31 Months of Blooming Memories

Mum's Pretty Garden:

31 Months of Blooming Memories 

Mum, your garden is a living, breathing continuation of your radiant spirit

and in its quiet beauty, it tells a story far greater than any prize could honour

My Darling Mum in Her Pretty Garden

Ma, it has been 31 long, aching months since the world lost its colour, when we lost you so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and so incomprehensibly, but through all those days and nights of grief, there has been one place where the hues still dance with your charming presence, where your infectious laughter still lingers in the rustle of leaves, where your cheerful smile shines through every unfurling blossom, where I have felt closest to you, where my sorrow has softened into something gentler, something sacred, and in those 31 months, this place has quietly, steadfastly held me together, as it has never stopped bringing me peace - your beloved, pretty garden

Ma, you never cared for picture-perfect symmetry or competition-worthy blooms, you never followed trends or chased approval, as your garden was never the sort of place, that would win horticultural awards or grace the cover of a magazine, but to us, it was, and always will be, the most beautiful garden in the world, it was personal, simple, and modest, it was your sanctuary, your canvas, and your happy place, it was alive, full of mismatched colours, and wild appeal, as vibrant, resilient, and imperfect as you were, and it was completely yours, a masterpiece, because it is the only place that still felt full of you, even now, especially now, in your awful absence 

Ma, for years, you spent so much of your time among your flowers, and you did not garden to impress, but you gardened because it made you happy, because you believed in beauty for its own sake, as you poured yourself, your love, your worries into the earth, your hands, always slightly dirt stained from tending, planting, coaxing new life from the soil like a quiet guardian of nature, moving through the garden, with the gentle certainty of someone, who understood the secret language of plants, you chatted to your roses and camellias, like old friends, scolded the squirrels for digging up, and beamed with pride at the annual, bountiful runner beans harvest 

 

Ma, I remember so vividly, 31 months ago, on that heart-shattering day, when you abruptly  departed from this universe, the utter shock, the total disbelief, the deafening silence of the car ride home, and the suffocating knowledge that I would be walking through the door of a house without you in it, so much so that, I refused to go back home at first, but eventually, I did return, nonetheless, the emptiness, too loud, your absence, too heavy, I could not bear to stay inside a hollow house, instead, I was drawn outside, to your garden, as if it called to me, it was the early hours, the cold air biting my skin, the kind of stillness that chilled me to the bone, but I stayed

 

Ma, I sat in your garden for hours that morning 31 months ago, wrapped in the kind of grief that did not yet know how to breathe, but, amidst the frost, the devastation, the heartbreak, and my profound sorrow, the most extraordinary thing happened, I felt peace, just peace, a grounding peace, I looked at the garden you nurtured with so much care, in that moment, I did not feel entirely alone, as I felt you, not in memory, but in presence, as real as the earth beneath my feet, I breathed you in, not in the way I wanted so damn desperately, but in the way the moonlight kissed your fondly loved flowers, as if the garden had caught your spirit, refusing to let it vanish  

 

Ma, since that devastating day, your garden has become my refuge, for every one of these 31 months without you, I do not just mourn, I meet you there, I feel you nearness in ways, I cannot explain, as your garden has carried me through the hardest months of my life and it has told stories only you and I understand, in every season, I return to this wonderful patch of earth you made your own, and every time, it welcomes me like you would, with comfort, with beauty, without needing words, it is the one place, where I do not feel crushed by your loss, but somehow, feeling held, I always feel being truly held by the place you loved most, strikingly, held by you 

 

Ma, 31 months on, your garden is more than soil and petals, it is the last place you tended, and the first place I go to remember how I was loved, it is your living letter to us, it is where you still talk to us, where I still feel your hands on my shoulders, you taught us that, garden speaks if we know how to listen, I now understand its secret, you are with us still, blooming in silence, rooted yourself so deep into our lives, feeding our souls from below the surface, where your love keeps growing endlessly, your garden may not be the grandest by worldly standards, but it is the garden of our hearts, and it remains unapologetically alive with your spirit, so full of wonder