My Mother's Garden

My Mother's Garden

         She stands there in our garden. She is laughing, loving, living. She is so happy in our garden, it gives her something to look forward to, gives her hope for her life. The garden reflects its craftswoman; beautiful and exciting. Different.
  The tree above her is green, it is full and grown. The lawn behind her has the old feel of being worn, comfortable. Its swing set is nicely rusted. The fence across the lawn is a homely grey, matching the colour of the weary footpath. In a great circle is the fountain – a tall black tower of life – feeding the rings and layers of plants around it. The bricks, which wait patiently, half way out, are pale in the sun, where the rose bushes are blazoning their majestic colours.
  Such patterns and colours are grand to behold, and it is a welcoming sight each day, but none of them can match the woman in the centre of it all. The garden will never be complete without her working in it.
  My smile fades at the memory. I place this wonderful picture back in the box with the others and look out into the garden. It is no longer the green paradise it once was years ago. My eyes grow wet when I realise I can almost hear her telling me off for allowing the garden to lose its flourish. Now, the fountain has been moved to the side, and has been taken over by falloff from the trees. The circle in the middle is an overgrown tangle of hedges and hay, which host the strangled rose bushes.
  I wish I could have it back, but I do not know how. I can never be what she was. What she is.
  I wish I could see her smile again.
  I wish I could hear her laugh again.
  I wish I could see her again...