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HAVE YOU VISITED MY MOTHER’S GARDEN?
My mother’s garden is overflowing with old, unusable objects that she fills with flowers and plants and soil. And love.
Do you like my mother’s garden so far?
My mother’s garden is a museum of reclaimed objects. Things like old metal and wooden cola cartons brimming with plants, a coal fireplace grate ready to sprout, tin cans with seedlings, a broken stone pony, a splintery white swing, a brick barbeque pit budding, a graceful tree, a nameless score of would-be sprouts, wild flowers that you’d better not mow down.
My mother keeps everything. Nothing goes to waste. In her hands things turn useful.
My mother’s greatest fear is that when she dies we will throw everything away. She feels we may not cherish every cracked vase, every old bottle.
My mother is wrong. We will not allow her treasures to be buried.
Have you smelled my mother’s garden?
My mother’s garden is scented with memories, memories of a small boy named Me hiding in a bush and changing into a Batman costume, crawling under the house to discover musty memories, swinging Tarzanlike from a lassoed tree, huffing behind an extinct pushmower.
My mother’s garden is filled with memories of a young mother named Mine, serving iced Pepsis on the baking lawn to prune-dry kids, pulling unwanted plants from around wanted ones, talking with stray animals as if they were children, cherishing every pebble and old toy.
That is my mother, a relentlessly warm and happy memory that does not fade.
Now, take a seat beside me on the swing. Here’s a cool drink. Close your eyes.
Tell me all about your mother
© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.