The Garden
Content Warning: Death, Parental Loss, Survivors Guilt
On days like today, I find my mind wandering towards the garden and how the vines that flow from the trees are wild, untamed, and beautiful. The roses, a vibrant red that manifests itself from the love of its inhabitants, How the fresh dew must look each morning, how the cool, gentle breeze blows through each day. Is it a comfort or a grim reminder of the reality of this place? Does the sun on your skin fill her with warmth? Does it bring back memories of better days when she was young and free? The weight of responsibility hadn't set in at that point, realizing how her life would go. Yet there are no doubts that she embraced it, even if the pressure was immense. To hold the world on her shoulders every day, people watching and admiring her strength. Their voices echo through my mind. Why don't you take a break? One day of rest won't kill you. You are going to work yourself to death. All the while, they would pile more things onto her, a facade born of a genuine attempt of care or perhaps achieve a free conscience through ignorance. It matters not in the end as in the garden there is no pressure, no responsibility, no facades. I remember my first time in the garden—a place where breath and pain cease to be. I asked myself many times since then why I wasn't scared, why I hadn't been pleading for them to come back with me. Hysteria should have taken over me; what I wanted more than anything was right in front of me, yet nothing. I rested motionless as they looked down and smiled at me. They were all dressed in white; tranquility dripped from every motion of their bodies. I felt they were conveying a message, trying to muster what they could to help me hang on. A sign that they were okay, that forgiveness was possible. So why hasn't she brought me to the garden? She is there; my heart knows she is. No one would deny her safe passage there. I wait every night for a vision of what awaits, for a divine message, for a sign of any sort to put my fears to rest that she is where she needs to be. Does the blame lie with me? Am I failing to live up to her hopes and aspirations? Do I not reflect the way she had dreamed I would? I have not been to the garden in quite some time, but I feel the vines of the trees tied tightly around my throat, cutting off the oxygen to my psyche. The thorns of the roses pierce my skin to dye themselves crimson with the color in my veins. The dew falls from my eyes, mouth, and nose as I desperately plead with the reflections of my sorrow. The breeze is cold, a reminder of the grim reality of what death took from me. A chill runs across every inch of my skin as thoughts of reality without her hit me again. Yet, I regret none of this suffering if only she could experience relief. If this is my final Mother's Day gift to you, I shall present it with all the love and hope I can muster within the broken facade of survival I wear.
Happy Mothers Day Mom.
Photo by Gavin McGruddy on Unsplash
