Memory Garden
I think in the short term the new garden area along the north fence is complete. I moved the bottle tree from its old spot behind the big oaks and the new gazebo to a spot by the young chinquapin. Now, when I look out the kitchen window I see a tableau. The bottle tree, the oak, an upright rosemary, a statue of St. Francis, a talavera pot, a metal buzzard, a yellow bells, a sage, and gregg’s mist flower. The living and the inanimate.
The bottle tree was a favorite of my late wife. The talavera pot, we bought together, sat on a pedestal by the front porch until it broke one day. The statue was a gift for my wife in a year long gone. The buzzard was crafted by my late uncle, my father’s brother. To the passing stranger, my garden might have the look of a country yard with a car on blocks and no tires. And I’m okay with that. Because everything means something, and if anyone cares to ask I’ll tell them. And if they don’t care, then maybe they’re not the friend I thought they were.
Besides, all my gardens are full of gnomes and objects. When the grandkids come they like to look and see what they can find, because the gnomes move and new things appear. And when I look at them, I know from whence they came. And I know that one day I’ll be gone, and all the objects will be stripped of their memories, the ones that held them in place. And I know that all they can then hope for is to be found once again, and maybe put into another garden to be looked at and loved, perhaps in memory of me.