Read by Matilda Longbottom

In mid-March 2020, as the world changed and fear of the coronavirus spread, I found myself separated from my mother, who was recovering from a stroke in a rehabilitation center. She was 95 years old, and the distance between us felt like an ocean of worry and grief. I tossed and turned at night, feeling the shadows of uncertainty lurking behind the pastel hues of early Spring. My heart ached, and tears flowed like rain in the wilderness.

In April, I decided to bring a splash of color into our lives, hanging blue, pink, and yellow plastic eggs on the crepe myrtle outside Mama’s window. She sat quietly in her wheelchair, her legs swollen, but I hoped the bright colors would bring a smile to her face.

As the days passed, I realized I had a choice: I could let the pandemic darken my days, or I could choose to seek the light. I chose the latter. I walked through fields strewn with purple violets near my apartment, wrote poetry, and planted cosmos in my garden, trusting in the resilience of these delicate flowers.

The garden plot looked unpromising at first—uneven rows of red dirt, clods of earth, and weeds poking through like unruly hair. But I knew that cosmos are tough, capable of thriving even in poor, arid soil. So, I scattered the tiny seeds across the furrows, gently pressing them into the ground with my fingers, and wished them luck.

A week later, storm clouds rolled in, and for several weeks, rain fell in melancholy sheets. I worried that the cosmos wouldn’t survive the daily drenching, just as my heart struggled to stay afloat amidst waves of sadness. But soon, small plants began to appear—little green soldiers standing tall in the mud. As I divided and replanted them, I imagined I was also uprooting my own fears and doubts, giving them a new place to grow.

By early May, as white dogwoods and pale pink apple trees blossomed, my mother returned home, no longer isolated. My spirits lifted with the joy of her presence and the warmth of the Spring sun. I spent my days weeding the garden, waiting for new growth, and smoothing the soil with the flat side of a trowel. With every weed I pulled, I felt a little lighter, a little more hopeful.

By late May, the garden was a sea of emerald green, the cosmos plants standing tall and proud. I brought a bright orange hibiscus for Mother’s Day, but my mother couldn’t see it. Tears welled up, but I kept tending the garden, hoping for a bloom.

As Summer arrived, I waited patiently for the first flowers to appear. The rain finally eased, and I called the Home Extension for advice. “Feed them,” the young man suggested. I did, but still, no flowers appeared.

One evening in late August, as the sun set in a blaze of red, I sat among the cosmos plants and asked, “Why aren’t you blooming? What should I do?” A gentle breeze whispered through the garden, and I felt a quiet assurance: “Wait for the harvest.”

So, I waited. I spent cool evenings in the garden, surrounded by the tall, green stems, feeling a sense of peace amidst the growing foliage. As my mother entered hospice, I knew her time was drawing near, but I found solace in the garden, where life continued to unfold.

In early September, as the maples turned yellow, I noticed a change. One of the plants had transformed into a graceful candelabra, with delicate stems radiating from a slender stalk. A tiny bud appeared, and after what felt like an eternity, it opened to reveal eight perfect, pale pink petals with golden centers. More buds followed, filling the garden with a riot of color.

As the days shortened and the weather cooled, the garden burst into bloom. Each flower was a testament to resilience, a reminder that beauty can flourish even in the face of adversity. My mother’s journey came to an end in November, but the cosmos continued to dance in the Autumn wind, their vibrant petals a celebration of life.

Two years later, I find myself blossoming in my own corner of the universe. The signs of Spring beckon, and I feel new shoots of hope and optimism growing within me. I remember the cosmos that persevered through mud and mire, rain and heat, and a grumpy, impatient gardener. They bloomed their hearts out—late, perhaps—but gloriously, just before the frost. How can I do any less? ❖

About the Author: Susan H. Evans, a Baltimore-based writer, finds inspiration in the beauty of nature and the resilience of the human spirit. With a deep love for creative nonfiction, poetry, and memoir, she has cultivated gardens across the southeastern United States, from South Carolina to Maryland. For Susan, writing and gardening are intertwined, both nurturing growth, whether in the form of stories or blossoms. Her work has been featured in various online and print magazines and journals, where she shares her passion for the simple joys of life, one story at a time.