On Gardening and Grief
Whatever will be, will be
Last year, Joe and I attempted to start a vegetable garden in our small backyard, not really thinking about what was best to grow in the space we had. We planted mint, peppers, and cucumbers, which people said were easy enough to grow for beginners. We watered them diligently and waited to see them sprout into edible goods. The mint and peppers thrived, although the one small cucumber that grew disappeared overnight, and we never got anything again. I assume a squirrel ate it.
This year, with more confidence and a little research, we decided to grow flowers instead. The goal is low effort but high reward, so we opted for perennial flowers that are drought-tolerant and easy to grow. I got a packet of wildflower seeds from the grocery store and purple coneflower seeds from the gift shop at the Toronto Botanical Garden. The packaging said “easy handling,” so I didn’t have to think twice about buying it. With my seeds ready and the weather getting warmer, I started to sow. It has rained a few times since, which I usually find depressing, but now that I’ve started planting, I don’t mind at all.
On Wednesday, while I was writing my morning pages and catching some much-needed rays, I noticed small spots of green on the patch where I sowed the flower seeds. To my surprise, they’ve started to sprout. I counted sixteen sprouts then, and today, I found thirty-two more. Blooms aren’t expected to come until mid-summer, but despite the sprouts being the size of an ant, I felt a lot of joy in seeing that something I planted grew and will grow even more.
I immediately thought of my lola, who would have turned 95 in April. I remember watching her tend to our garden when I was younger, talking to the orchids and watering the plants with pure bliss. She’d sit in the garden for hours each day. Whenever I joined her, she’d bring me a plate of snacks or a box of Sky Flakes with a pitcher of iced tea for us to share.
We’d sit in the comfortable silence, waiting for time to pass and observing the beauty of nature. I loved watching the wind blow through the trees. The dappled light and the unique shadows it cast. I never questioned why she spent so much time gardening or sitting outside. I felt and understood her contentment, but more importantly, I wanted to experience it with her.
When my lola passed about six years ago, we knew it was going to happen. Days before, my mom got on the phone with her siblings and the doctor to talk about life support—a conversation I can only imagine was one of the most difficult conversations for my mom to have, especially living on the other side of the world. My lola was bedridden but still able to speak, so we each took turns talking to her. During our last conversation, before my parents and I flew to the Philippines, we spoke about how much we loved each other. I told her to hold on. I wasn’t ready to let her go. In the end, she told me, “I have accepted my death. I am happy with the life I lived.”
On the plane ride to Manila, there was a brief moment when my mom and I cried at the same time. We turned to each other and held each other’s hands, my dad hugging my mom to comfort her. We talked about accepting the reality: my lola lived a long and joyful life, and her death was inevitable. I put my sleeping mask back on to cover my swollen eyes.
When we arrived at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport, I quickly connected to the wifi to text my auntie that we’d landed. As soon as I clicked on Facebook Messenger, I saw my auntie’s message from a few hours ago when we were still up in the air. My lola was gone. Without saying a word, I looked at my mom and she knew right away. I had never seen her cry as hard as she did.
Grieving is never easy. No matter how much time has passed, I still think about how much I miss her. I know not everyone forms such a connection with a grandparent, so I feel incredibly lucky to have experienced the love she’s given me. I was the youngest grandchild who seemed to always have a little extra energy, and I knew I was the favourite. I loved giving her hugs, and she always asked me to sing and dance at family gatherings. I took piano lessons with my cousins, which I hated because I knew they were better than me, but my lola loved that I learned how to play “Que Sera, Sera,” so she always asked me to play it for her as she sang along. It’s still the only song I know how to play on the piano today.
It’s been six years since she passed, and I cry just as much as I did during the first year. But for the first time when I was in the garden last week, I felt her presence. The sun was shining, and I could smell the grass like I did whenever we sat outside. Suddenly, light washed over me, and whatever I was worrying about that day just melted away. She may not be here physically, but our memories together remain. I know she’s with me whenever I’m in the garden.
This made me choke up. I have been thinking often about the very real eminent fate, death, and the thought of losing my parents at any point in time makes me want to crawl deep into the earths core, close my eyes, and wait until I can see them again. In short, I don't know how I would live my life without them here. Your article, however, showed me that the pain is normal and they never truly leave us. Death is redirection I suppose. A way for us to express our love and form connections with people we've lost in ways we couldn't when they were around. And that in itself is a beautiful journey to be experienced.