I’m not too good at gardening, this I’m finding out.
Right after Wyatt died I had this darkening sense that I was toxic and that whatever I came in contact with, would also become diseased. That something was wrong with me, that my body failed me and my son, that my genes were faulty, that there was some explanation I could blame for this tragedy. To combat these feelings was no joy, so I pounded up and down every aisle in Home Depot in hopes of distraction. Eventually browsing flowers of all kinds, I selected a springy Hibiscus, two bushy Geraniums, one puffy Dahlia, and a bright orange Star of Bethlehem. The garden was born. I had to make something grow. I had to watch something be beautiful, like all those days and nights I watched Wyatt be beautiful.
The garden box is no big deal, just four plain planks I screwed together. Some of the flowers are living and some are well, not so much living. It’s been nine weeks since my son passed away and I don’t know how good I am at this new healing hobby, if I want to call it that. But, I’m trying. The set up is cute, anyway. And, hey, those Lantana look pretty swell on the side, too!
Though the garden box isn’t thriving like I’d wish it would, the rose bush is doing well; it’s doing really well, actually.
The week of Wyatt’s passing, my aunt Lucy drove to several family member’s homes and delivered large rose bushes in his honor. It was a compassionate gesture and I cried as I read the words in the card, meant for him. I went out and bought a beautiful cobalt blue pot and planted Wyatt’s rose inside. I waited and watched it carefully, seeing how it was doing in those first few days. When the second white rose bloomed (I couldn’t bring myself to cut off the first one!), I cautiously snipped it and placed it in a tulip vase on my kitchen window sill. It really was lovely. My little baby rose.
I know in the core of me, I’m not toxic. God made me and God made Wyatt and he was beautiful. I know that this is a feeling that will lessen its grip on me and has somewhat dimmed already, since the darkness of those first grieving days.
I hope to become better at gardening.