Il Giardino

Each time I’d visit, she’d show me through her garden pointing out this plant and that plant with pride. I engaged superficially and not as interested as she would have wanted me to be. The garden was her life, and all she wanted was to share it with me. But I was young and didn’t recognize that it was a part of herself she was attempting to bequeath.

She no longer walks the graveled pathways, bending to pick a weed here and there, or reaching to trim back an unruly plant. She no longer celebrates the flowers that bloom in their own season nor cooks with the herbs she grew herself. She’s arrived at the Crossroad, and now has other things on her mind.

Mamma gave me the responsibility of her passion without knowing.

A passion that came to me late in life and,

I suppose,

regrettably will have the same imminent outcome.

One more thing I understand.