Read by Matilda Longbottom

My grandmother Darlene’s garden was wild. She was not one for a prim garden with sharp edges and straight lines. Her garden was a kaleidoscope of brilliant blues, deep purples, and captivating reds, taking up a good chunk of the backyard as she continually added to it. She referred to it as “the collection;” to her, it was more a collection of nature’s beauty than simply a garden. To the serious gardener, my grandmother was probably an abomination. She spent more time gazing upon it than tending to it.

“That’s the beauty of a wildflower garden. You can spend more time enjoying its beauty than tending to it,” she always said to her friends. They would be busily hacking and digging away at their immaculate gardens as we sipped our lemonade on the wooden bench. Instead of a pristinely painted new lawn seat, my grandma preferred a rickety wooden one she’d had as long as I could remember.

“Why don’t you get a new one like Alma’s next door?” I remember asking her after watching Alma place a fancy store-bought chair in her garden. I was certain it must have come from some upscale designer store.

“My bench may be old but there’s nothing wrong with old. Besides, it’s a good sturdy one. Alma’s is likely to collapse the minute she parks her ample derriere on it,” she said with a conspiratorial snicker. I loved that she treated me as a friend and confidant and not just as a child she happened to love. She had a lovely way of showing me I was important and my thoughts and opinions were valid.

Years later, I learned that the rugged old seat built for two in her garden had been handmade by my grandfather. When they were newlyweds, she wanted a settee to enjoy her garden, but they were so poor she couldn’t just go buy one. My grandfather was a man of few words. He was not mean but always seemed to keep a distance from people. He never expressed emotion and never said, “I love you.” I thought about how much that chair built for two must have meant to my grandma.

My grandfather worked 16-hour days, seven days a week back then. Instead of taking the rest he needed, he secretly worked on that bench. Most would call it plain except for the two connected hearts he carved into the back. It had his name on one and hers on the other. Even I could see that the carving must have taken a long time and a gentle touch. I can only imagine the look on her face when he presented it to her. For a man who rarely spoke, the carved chair spoke volumes about his love for her.

All of my childhood memories revolve around my grandmother and her garden. I spent every Summer with her, and whenever she wasn’t at work, we were in the midst of wildflowers. I didn’t know it then, but she was instilling qualities in me that would guide me through my life. I used to stare across the yard at her neighbor Alma’s house. The house itself was nicer than my grandmother’s; it was far larger and even had a white picket fence. Grandma’s house seemed slightly out of place next to Alma’s, older and slightly shabby on the outside. They couldn’t afford expensive siding to impress the neighbors, but the inside was cozy and immaculately kept.

Alma didn’t work, so it was common to see her gardening all day. She attacked weeds vigorously; it was like watching a battle. Grandma’s style was very laid back. She didn’t bother with weeds until they threatened to overthrow the garden. She believed nature was a far better artist than we could ever be, so she didn’t stand in its way. She didn’t plan; she would stop at the nursery, see a brilliantly hued flower, bring it home, and add it to “the collection.”

We would sit on the hand-carved seat my grandpa made and talk about everything. My parents’ divorce was a common topic. It must have been hard for her to explain why my father wasn’t around; he was a drunk, and he was her son. I was certain I had done something to make my father not want to be with us. I look back now and see her trying to help a guilt-ridden 9-year-old understand her father’s demons.

“How old are you, Grandma?” I would ask. “Old enough to know better and still too young to care,” was her response every time. Never satisfied, I would always push, “Seriously, Grandma, how old are you?” She would turn those deep blue eyes on me and say, “Ashley, the passing of time is a man-made concept. Our bodies deteriorate, but our hearts remain the same age. I’m the same age as you, except with a little more wisdom.”

To this day, I still do not know how old she was. I do know how old she was in her heart, though, and that’s really all that matters.

All my memories of her involve us sitting (or lying) in that wildflower garden. Back then, people would have described me as a loner, but I didn’t feel lonely. I had her, my grandma, my best friend. I was content to stay there in that garden with her forever. Then the dark time came, and it was like a Winter’s frost, killing the garden and my best friend.

Cancer. The word tasted cold and black in my mouth, sounded evil to my ears. I’d never heard the word until then. “I have cancer, honey. It’s inside me, and you can’t see it, but I don’t have much time. I’m dying,” Grandma spoke those words without a tear in her eyes. I was devastated; she was going to leave me.

“What happens when you die?” I whispered, tears strangling my voice.

“I’ll go to heaven. You can’t see heaven from earth, but it’s a beautiful place filled with wildflowers,” she said in a voice so full of love that my heart broke.

“I don’t want you to go. Why can’t you just stay here?” I questioned in my childish ignorance. I had no understanding of death; unbeknownst to me at that time, I was lucky to have not had a brush with death until now.

“Of course, you will!” she exclaimed, tears of her own now streaking her face. “I’ll be waiting for you there, and even though you won’t see me, I’ll still sneak back here to visit you.” That conspiratorial smile returned to her lined face.

Never one to be told what to do, she lived three months beyond what the doctors said she would. Every day we spent in the garden laughing, loving, saying goodbye in every way except the actual words. We talked about so many things that even now, over ten years later, bits of that conversation I’d forgotten come back to me. Except for when she had told me about the cancer, I never saw another tear fall from her blue eyes. She didn’t just go quietly into death; she met it with fierceness, laughing and showering love upon everyone she met.

I wasn’t there when she died, and I believe that’s the way she wanted it. When I was told, I thought the crack in my heart and soul would never heal. I walked, numb, to her garden and broke down when I saw the colors. I had always thought the wildflowers were the most beautiful colors, but today they were not of this world. They literally seemed to glow with their dazzling array of color. They were so bright that everyone, even Alma, commented on how stunning they were today of all days. Staring at that beautiful garden, I felt my soul lighten and heard a whisper in my heart, “I’m still with you. I love you.” It brought me such peace and comfort to go to that garden and feel her presence on that rugged old bench.

Even now that my grandfather is gone and their house sits empty and silent, the wildflowers remain. They have expanded into the forest, returning the backyard to nature. On the way home from the hospital, I brought my newborn son there to meet his great Grandma Darlene. How I wish he could have known her. She was a woman without much material wealth but loaded to the gills with the richness of great love and wisdom. Her peaceful way of letting life unfold before her, accepting both the highs and lows with love and grace, was reflected in her garden. She didn’t try to control or force it to be something other than it was. She gave it nudges of love and allowed it to take its own shape. She loved the beautiful flowers and didn’t let her vision of them be clouded by the weeds.

When my husband and I bought our home, I was delighted to find a patch of wildflowers growing in the backyard. I knew that was Darlene’s way of putting her stamp of approval on the house. I take my son, and we pick out flowers of brilliant hues and add them to our little garden. He’s too little to say much, but he reaches for those bright colors and has a smile that steals your heart when we spend time in the garden. We still visit Grandma’s wildflowers and recently moved her old wooden settee to our garden. After all, just because it’s old doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with it. It’s still a good sturdy bench. ❖

About the Author: Ashley Peake lives in the laid-back Upper Peninsula of Michigan with her son and husband. She wrote this article to keep the memory of her grandmother and her wildflower garden alive, cherishing the lessons of love, resilience, and acceptance that her grandmother imparted through the beauty of nature.