The Garden

The dawn light has a different hue at this time of year. It's as if it knows the season is about to change and it reaches for every last splinter of the summer sunshine, piercing even the tiniest nook and crannie of the garden. My dad's garden, once impressively majestic, now stands as a reminder of an era long since passed when he lavished his expertise on every plant, tree and shrub coaxing them into magnificent blooms and eye-catching splendor.

The memories of my past meander through my head without objection and a quiet smile flits across my face, grateful for the opportunity once more to have had these moments to reflect and enjoy Dad's handiwork. The garden is a shadow of what it used to be. Dad's intricate designs have succumbed to the passage of time and sagging arches and wounded structures are suffocating in the overgrowth of many decades. In many ways, Dad's garden is a mirror image of his failing frame. Both declare a life well-lived and echo the strength and poise of a deep love for one another.

Dad can no longer care for his beloved garden or indeed himself, and even though it is painful to witness, it brings the unshakeable truth of the passage of time and the inevitable decline that we all must face one way or another. For today though, I see a rose struggling to survive in dire surroundings and a man who gets pleasure from seeing that same rose burst to life, recovering from a storm that almost wrecked it. At almost 91, dad remembers what is important and the value of a well-placed seed, when nurtured and loved, will always bring forth an unexpected beauty.