Every morning, I would wake up to the sound of the garden hose, as I peered to the sight of my Grandmother from the second floor window. I remember those days when me and my childhood friend would run around in the grass. I can still smell the damp soil. I used to hate walking barefoot on the grass.
Every morning, until I was eleven, she would walk around the garden to water her precious plants. She loved her garden so much; she planted and planted and planted some more. She would get up at 5 in the morning, water the plants then join us to eat breakfast. I got so used to that setting. I was so curious why it was important to maintain these things. I had no idea what’s so special in a garden full of plants. I hated butterflies and caterpillars and I’m even allergic to ant bites.
Every morning, this was her routine, until one day she wasn’t gardening anymore. I was growing up and she was counting her days. A few trips to the hospital became several until she had to spend weeks in a hospital. She grew tired of eating and demanded to stay at home. I would normally visit her house and watch the television while she lies down her bed, sleeping. That was the time I hated so much.
I grew worried. Worried what might happen after. I didn’t want for her to go. I learned that keeping a garden is hard to maintain. Just like life itself. When my Grandmother was alive, the garden was full of life, happy and full of color. I missed that part of her. I finally realised how important it is to keep something. I could have spent those summers, learning how to garden or to just spend a few more days with her before she left this world. I wish to take care and maintain her garden, make it look just like it was when I was a child. That way our place would blossom with beautiful flowers, just like it was when I was a kid.
My Grandmother's Garden by Kat Dannug
“To my Grandmother who is always so passionate, your garden will continue to blossom even in heaven.”