Going Home

Today Paul and I went to mom's house to check out her old compost tumbler. I saw it last somewhere in the early '90s in the back yard. Mom wasn't sure what condition it was in, but it was ours if we wanted it. I hadn't been in the back yard since my son was little. After dad died we didn't barbecue much, the grandkids were too old for Easter egg hunts, and there just wasn't much reason to go out the back door anymore. Mom warned us that it was a mess. She hasn't been able to keep up like she used to, and everything was overgrown. I know her kids have tried for years to offer help, but she's a stubborn one -- wants to do it all herself. The shed is falling down, the trees need to be cut back, the ivy is slowly overtaking the spot where her cherry tree used to be but we know better than to insist too much. When mom says no, she means no.

As we walked down the deck steps I noticed she was right -- everything was overgrown, and it was beautiful, magical even. The overgrown trees with their unchecked canopy shaded the yard, plants and bushes sent their scraggly branches in a desperate search for the the sun, and the lawn reduced to a mowed path that encircled the garden. Even the weeds were luscious and green. We stood in the garden for a good while pointing out trees, bushes and plants to Paul telling stories of where and when, and remembering.

I wouldn't change one thing.