The Garden

Mother's house was always a little dusty, but full of sun and flowers and good food. Somehow, Adalade had always felt that all life had begun in Mother's garden. It was more important than the house and received much more attention. Though unconventional, this made sense. After all, the house was just brick and drywall and paint. The garden was alive.

Over time, Adalade lost this understanding. She grew up, made friends and changed her priorities. Suddenly, the garden was a waste of time. It was too rural, too backward.

Mother, too, became an embarassment in front of her friends. Her wild, sun-bleached hair and well-browned arms were a sorry contrast to the other women's pale, delicate beauty. Mother seemed to notice, but was content to cultivate begonias and green peppers and ignore her daughter's attitude.

Even as an adult, Adalade would not bring friends when she visited Mother. She refused to go out to the garden, but looked through the window half-heartedly while Mother proudly spoke.

Now, she wished she had broken that old earth one last time. Mother was gone. How sad that she had not realized how important she had been to her.

The house was unchanged, as though Mother could come through the screen door any minute, laughing and clapping her hands. The large windows let in wide sheaves of sun and the vinyl-covered checkerboard tablecloth glinted.

The garden looked another world apart. The plants were bent and yellowed and weeds towered over the fence. Now she knew that Mother wasn't coming back. The garden was dying too.

Adalade moved into the house. In the mornings, she drank black coffee and wandered through the ruined garden, her vision blurred with tears. Now and then, she pulled a weed up by the roots and tore it in two, angry that Mother had left her behind. As the weeds disappeared, her anger left her.

Some afternoons, she could do nothing but remember. She thought of Mother's gentle voice and hummed familiar lullabyes. She mounded dirt around the tomatoes, imagining that her hands were Mother's hands, nurturing and calm.

Adalade's imitation must have convinced the plants, for they became greener. The onions sprouted and the impatiens bloomed. Tiny zucchini appeared beneath the heavy leaves. The garden was alive after all.

In the evening cool, Adalade sat on the porch swing and dusted her hands. Soon, the peas would be ready for snapping. The house would fill with the clatter of canning jars and the smell of rhubarb pie. Mother would have been proud.

She had remembered how to love the simplicity of the country. She could not replace Mother - she would always be free-spirited like her father. But, she could keep the garden. That part of Mother need not die.