Gardening Her

Her garden was where I felt the closest to her. Even if she wasn't actually in the garden with me. Weeding and planting felt like gardening her. Watering her roots. Keeping her healthy. I would smoke and listen to her wind chimes sparkle in the breeze.

Later, when I was manic in New York, I would groom the plants on the sidewalk. It made me feel close to her, to garden the same plants she had grown thousands of miles away. I continued to garden her even in death. I thought I was combing my grandma’s hair when I pruned the plants.

When I was reaching the peak of my mania, with no understanding of how my brain was breaking or why, I heard her wind chimes. It was odd, to hear them like a song that was stuck in my head. I did not think anything of it as I cried, knowing something was wrong but not what I needed. I called my mom, my brother, my friends. No one picked up. Finally, I called my dad. He answered and through the phone I heard my grandma’s wind chimes, a sound I hadn’t heard in years. Now, the sound came through the phone. I asked him if he was outside. If there was a breeze. He said no, that he was in his house.

When I heard those chimes, I knew it was a message from my grandma, telling me that home would come for me. My mom flew out to New York that night. She came and saved me because of that phone call, because of those chimes. If I had not heard those chimes and searched for them somewhere outside of my head, I might not have called my dad. I might not have gotten the help I needed. I might not have ever become sane again.

I see her in tomatoes now. In gardens and in love itself. I think she taught me what love is. She loved with no parameters. No conditions. She loved wholly and fully and universally. Unconditionally. I want to garden the way she loved – to create a family full of love the way she did. I love her. I miss her.