it's that time of year again where i really start to think about my mom a lot. right about now, three years ago, she went into the hospital, which is where she would spend her last days. i remember counting every blossom of every flower in my yard in portland... all of the plants i had planted, dirt under my nails in the hot sun, turning in the year-old kitchen compost, everything we ate becoming black gold, churned into the vapid soil to make hospitable beds out of dry clay. i remember cutting those blossoms proudly to bring to her room, anything, anything to fight the beeping and buzzing and clicking of hospital ephemera, the sterility of plastic and the smell of sanitizer. i would bring fresh flowers from my own garden, a new bouquet every time those flowers started to begin to wilt. it was all i could do, everything i could do, even after she went to sleep and didn't wake up again. how it all flashes back sometimes, especially this time of year.
today, i woke up sad. it happens when i don't expect it, even three years later. i guess that's inevitable. james asked me: is there anything you can think of that will make you feel better? outside, through the window, i could see the sun peeking through the clouds. springtime. suddenly, i knew exactly what to do. I pulled up my sleeves, grabbed a spade, and set to work in the soil. life abounds in the garden.