My mother was a master gardener. She never went to school and trained to get this status rather it came to her naturally. Her garden was an oasis of color ready for passersby to have wedding photos taken. A natural rock which sprouted out in her yard in the Portsmouth Village; a place where long ago the keepers of convicts had aspirations of building the whole of Kingston on their backs. A vein of rock ending square in her cellar made the house damp and cottage like all year around. The house, two blocks up from the quarry edge where it was a century ago filled with the convict whose lover sat in the house a few down and pined for him, and served his needs.
When mother died a few weeks ago she asked us to keep her flowers alive. Move them to our places, dissect them for her friends taking parts of her long toil and spreading it – the best of her – the living part, to sections in the gardens across Eastern Ontario. As for me, I inherited her seeds and plants and nothing more. I have no knowledge from her about the garden and therefore dug up in vain what I now know are lupins and hosta, periwinkles and silver mound. Thousands of seeds with names like “kiss me over the neighbors gate Kate” and Goblin. Three year pink sweet pea and invasive but I love this flower scribbled in moms funny hand with no other notes about height and what these things mean. An in vain attempt to keep a bit of the best of her for myself – I have made a ten foot long garden in her honor next to the grave of my baby Lily who was taken too early to be swaddled and buried properly.
At the bed side we watched as mother struggled to die. She had been ready for it for years now. The pain of living too much for her and when we did not understand she tried to suicide, pulling desperately at the tubes and machines until they finally tied her up – she tried to speak to make us understand… but there were no words only the desperate attempts.
What do you want mother?
We said.
Do you want someone? Something?
We guessed.
Do you want us to take your garden? Yes!
Do you want to see Bob? Yes!
Funny face I love you!
If I say all those mean things – I want to die
you know are not true – I have a living will
Funny face I love you.
What will we do if the flowers die and there is nothing left at all?
