As I sit in the warm-but-not-hot sun,
I count the figs on the fig tree, rub a sprig of rosemary,
plucked from the bush that grows wild and untamed,
between two fingers.
A robin gingerly approaches the blueberry bush,
stops for a moment to inspect its branches,
hops inside and rustles around.
He pauses — drops — collects his spoils.
My father decides it’s time to rearrange the garden art.
He is grieving, but not grave.
His mother died this morning.
He sticks his face towards the sun, or maybe me.
I think he finds comfort in the garden,
the life growing from the dirt.
And I suppose this life, mine, here now, too.
He lets death give birth to beauty and pulls rebar from earth.
With my free hand, I rub leaves on a tomato plant and
breathe deeply.
I count the colors of chard and
map the path of the arugula my mother can’t seem to get rid of.
The hummingbird returns for the third time this morning,
counts the flowers on the crocosmia that he’s already hit,
finds the ones he hasn’t.
And in that moment, I know
this is it.
There’s no going back.
Image Credits: David FloresThis piece is part of our Fall 2021 In-Residence series, Blooming Fiascoes with Ellen Hagan.
