The Garden

A man looks at his garden and remembers his past.

He liked working in his garden. That was an understatement. He actually loved working in his garden. Whether in the cool morning hours before the summer heat baked down or in the evening when the clouds changed from white to orange to pink and purple. He didn't have a large garden, but then he didn't have a large house. He and his wife liked to keep the place to themselves and, after someone had cracked the glass on the front door, they had decided to put a hedge across the front of the house, blocking off the front steps from the street. The hedge grew fast and he appreciated the shade, as well as the privacy.

Now was something of a floral hiatus. Most recently they'd had spears of gladiolas. Different colors, mostly oranges, some yellows, and a few pinks. Before that had been the irises. Mostly white with some light blue ones sprinkled around. He liked irises. The plants were sturdy, almost like weeds. He appreciated how they held the soil where planted and, after thinning out a dense patch, he put some on the slope in the front. He was going to put some lavender in that area too. He found the sound of bees buzzing very relaxing. Combine that with the heavy scent from the purple spikes of flowers, a warm day, a cool drink and some shade to lie in and one could while away an afternoon.

Maybe he should get some lilies. They would bring some color in one of the periods between other blooms. Tiger lilies with their bright orange would be nice. Pop, pow, bang! Orange splotches to catch the eye. Or there were the big Easter lilies with their heavy scent. They grew quite tall though and would disturb the lines of what was there now. And when he paused, he remembered the smell, almost a reek, at the funeral home when his grandmother passed. She had loved lilies, especially the big white ones, saying their scent was the scent of heaven. It had seemed like a good idea to have so many of her favorite flower - better than those kitschy wreaths of chrysanthemums that people did. But when he stood there, in the front row, amidst the waves of perfume, he had almost been overwhelmed and wanted to run from the room. Of course, he'd been younger then and he'd loved her so much. Every summer, he stayed with her and worked the patch of ground she had. His parents kept working, couldn't get away. His father's job as an engineer in the radio factory didn't afford much time off. His mother's job as a special education teacher had time off in the summer, but she wasn't interested in going to the countryside and certainly not to be with her mother-in-law. He relished the freedom - two months every year - a sixth of his childhood - spent lightly supervised, if at all, working hard. His grandmother had immediately put him to work, saying that she knew he could do many things once shown. Her confidence in him - in his physical abilities and his innate good sense to stay out of trouble - had buoyed him throughout his life. When he wanted more than what his country had on offer, he knew he could manage elsewhere. And she had given him her blessing and her good wishes and sent him on his way. His parents were a bit surprised that he did want more, but when they thought about it, why not? He'd always done well in school, had handled himself well enough, and wasn't asking them for money. So he got their blessings too. And he left, and then he saw his grandmother much less - only on occasions when he came home and that wasn't often. He had to work while studying, so had little time and less money. But whenever he came home, he went out to the country, and saw her there. And she looked smaller each time. He wasn't really sure whether that was because she was getting smaller, as old people do, or his horizons were bigger. And there she was in the coffin, indeed smaller, as a body shrinks after the soul it housed leaves it behind.

No, he didn't need to put any lilies in his garden.