My grandma's garden.



I have visited my grandma’s garden ever since I can remember. She has always loved and cared for her plants as if they were an extension of her flesh and bones. Her garden wasn’t aesthetic. It wasn’t big, either, nor would it be considered astonishing in the eyes of the average beholder... yet it had something that, to me, made it seem as a real life Wonderland: somewhere where you could hide between the green of the leaves and get drunk on the flowers perfume. Some place where your wildest thoughts could come to life. She grew flowers and succulents long before they were popular in the hipster community. She harvested tomatoes once, but other than that, no edible grew there. Butterflies and hummingbirds were common visitors. They would wander around this tiny jungle and sometimes, “play” with us, the grandchildren. Looking back on it, it was more of a hunting game where tiny humans got a hold of the poor butterflies’ wings and tossed them around until they could no longer fly. I wish I had known I was hurting them. I didn’t see the harm back then. I was naive enough to think I was just “appreciating their beauty.”

This caused our flying guests to stop coming. The garden was just as fun as ever, yet it felt some kind of lonely. One particular winter, the cold killed most of my granny’s plants. The grandchildren didn’t want to play there anymore. Outside, the garden’s corpses laid on pots, fragile on the dirt. Everyone gave up on them, everyone but my grandmother. She sang and spoke to them as if she were to get a reply. She watered them religiously until she brought the magic back from the dead. Eventually, her plants grew vigorously again. It recovered its old charm, and, as of right now, it remains. Not too long ago my grandmother adopted two little yellow birds because she loved their melodies. Everybody was very glad for her because, as time went on, it became harder for her siblings to visit her as often. The birds keep her company and, in return, she gives them all her love. Her garden is their home, and now, it is the most beautiful it has been in a long time. You literally can not stand straight without hitting your head with a pot. It’s amazing.It blows my mind to realize that her garden has aged with us. It has been a key witness to our family development: it was there during my mom’s childhood, my aunt’s pregnancy, my cousin's departure and my first date. It has been our quiet companion and confidant through all these years. If it could speak, I wonder what it would say.


word_man's picture

she probably thought of that

she probably thought of that garden as her family

allets's picture

A Little Chaos

This poem brings that movie back again - a favorite:
If such a rose could speak," Alan Rickman asks, "what would she say?"

And Kate Winslet's reply is this short prose piece about grandma's garden.

The restoration after the corpses of winter touched my gardener's heart.

I may try berries this year. I'm scared of tomatoes. :D