Do you remember how I used to love gardening, my darling?

Do you remember what we used to grow?

How we used to make our own salads, our own spiced fermentables?

Do you remember how the solarblooms stood tall?

The marigolds still bloom every seasons. Til this day. And the nasturtiums still flood the gardenbed. Everytime I come by and have a look, they shine and fill the yard with colour. Whether I’ve tended to them or not, there they bloom.

All our trees. They still bear fruit. The peach tree is still sick, as you know. But she still tries her hardest to provide us her sweet plumps of joy. And oh how she blossoms. I still love the blossoms that decorate the garden at the start of each season. The soft pinks and whites.

Times in the garden have taught me a lot. A whole lot. Especially in terms of life.

I know what love, care, and attention can bring to life. How a careful eye could identify a specific need, so that it could be treated. How a little water every once in a while could sustain good health. How them just knowing that I was there gave them the reassurance to grow.

I also know what too much of that could do. The deluge. Of nutrients and water. Poison in other words. Anything in excess was harmful. And growth needed as little of that as possible. But there was something far more worse than overfeeding.

Dependence. A point I never wanted our dears to reach. For I knew what that would mean. It meant that once I was gone, they too would be gone. I learnt that most plants had the perseverance to survive on their own, so long as they were taught how while they were young.

I also learnt that there are certain plants that will never shine as beautifully as they could, unless… Unless they were tended to.

The rare few in our garden.

A feeling of mourn overcomes me whenever I look at those empty spots in our garden. A regret. In knowing I could have kept them alive. If I had cared enough.

But there is only so much a man can do. These flowers… Their allure. Their grace. I hope to see them one last time. One last shine.

All the others that flourish in my garden, I love them much the same. But that rare bloom of those I can never grasp forever. There is something to truly cherish.

Should I come back to the garden? A man already has other dears to nurture. Maybe once I’ve gathered enough light in myself. Then maybe I can start again.

I do hope for the day that I can grow these beauties again… An ensemble of harmony.

That would be a dream.

Of course, unless…