Love Lies Sleeping in My English Cottage Garden

A light rain is falling as I stroll through the dreary winter landscape of my backyard garden. The grassy path is sodden by a week of steady rain and my boots make little sucking sounds as I make my way to the rose trellis toppled by a recent storm. As a rule, I avoid the garden in the wintertime. It's a collection of barren fruit trees with leaves and fallen fruit decomposing beneath them. The last of the autumn flowers are shriveled and brown; struck down by frost. Everything about the garden in winter reminds me of something I've lost and memories of a loved one gone, but not forgotten...

Gordon stopped breathing shortly after two, on Father's Day, as I sat by his side and tenderly caressed his deeply wrinkled brow. Blinded by burning tears, I said my final goodbyes, gently pulled the blanket over his face, and walked to the living room to call my son. "He died..." were the only words I could choke out between sobs.

"Don't worry, Mom," Joey said, "Go outside to the garden. I'll be right there to take care of everything."

I knew that Joey would call his brother, Bobby, and together they would save their mother the grim chore of attending to the necessary final arrangements. Reluctantly, I took the advice and made my way to the backyard garden where Gordon and I had spent so many days at work, and play, and quiet times together doing nothing at all. Gordon loved being in the garden as much as I did and it is difficult turning my back on him to walk out that door alone.

It's a beautiful garden - an old-fashioned cottage garden - where an abundance of Old English roses are the stars and vintage varieties of annuals and perennials crowd around them like adoring fans. The sweet damask fragrance of the old-fashioned roses hangs heavy in the air from June through September and abundant blooms weave a tapestry of soft pastels to calm and soothe the senses. From the back door, a narrow grass pathway winds its way between overflowing flower beds. Clumps of lavender and rosemary brush against my pant legs and reward me with their pungent scents as I pass. I sit for a few minutes on the bench beneath an arbor smothered in star jasmine and drink in the sweet perfume before continuing my stroll. As always, I walk the path slowly, stopping frequently to smell or admire a particularly beautiful bloom, perhaps bending down to pluck an errant weed, or to coax a ladybug onto my finger and then watch her fly away. This is the real beauty of the cottage garden. Everything about it is designed to encourage us to slow down and "take time to smell the roses." It is aromatherapy in its purest form and today, in particular, I am grateful for its therapeutic balm.

The musical sounds of trickling water heralds the fish pond just around the next bend in the path. In our daily walks through the garden, the fish pond was a favorite resting spot for Gordon and me. The goldfish, expecting to be fed, would eagerly surface and, then, quickly dart away to the cover of the water lilies as Gordon leaned down for a drink of the cool water. Today, I am sadly alone and unprepared to feed them, so I do not linger there. Instead, I continue on to the end of the garden where the narrow path opens to a large grassy spot beneath a very large and very old King apple tree.

Flowers won't grow here and, so, the perimeter of the area has been given over to forest ferns, moss, and evergreens that relish the dim light and rich compost of leaf mold and fallen fruit. Mother Nature is the gardener here. With no flowers to tend and no weeds to pull, it is a place of true rest. In the heat of summer, Gordon and I would often retreat to the cool shade of this leafy glade where I would lounge in the hammock with a good book while he stretched out and napped on the soft, green grass. It is here, I think, that Gordon should be laid to his final rest. I clear a spot of ground amongst the ferns and move the garden statue of St. Francis there to be the guardian over his endless sleep.

"Is that where you want Gordon to be, Mom?" Joey says, from somewhere behind me.

I turn to see my two sons have arrived, the younger holding a shovel and the older cradling a sturdy box. I nod.

"Yes, I think so. Do you think that's okay?"

"Perfect," Bobby says. "Just, perfect."