It was her space, her sanctuary, the little nook where dawn greeted her delicately sipping freshly brewed coffee. It was where she went to be herself. Plans were made, decisions taken, strategies designed, all while she walked around watering her plants. Several offers to install sprinklers were dismissed. ‘It’s when I think best,’ she would say, obviously possessive of her private time.
Whenever she was angry, upset or hurt, or when life got stressful, having her hands in the soil, just the contact with the earth, seemed to calm her. She would talk to her ‘babies’ as she trimmed and pruned them, just sharing her day and wondering about theirs, as they both bloomed in the aftermath of those intimate conversations.
Then one day she was gone.
We were adrift without her. Her ‘babies’ started to shrivel and fade.
Their grief would have devastated her so I tried my best. I watered them, cleaned their bed, shared memories of her.
I was but a pale substitute.
And then merciful spring came. The once bereft boughs have blossomed again and their scent diffused in the breeze lifts my spirits. In a few more weeks those petals, those perfect silky hearts, will flutter down and my parched heart will feel her gentle kisses again.
In Response to: Sunday Photo Fiction – April 23rd 2017
Photo by: John Brand