Mom and Her Garden

What do you do when your mom is 94 years old, deep in dementia, no longer mobile, and often not awake?  You grieve, and you remember.

I remember Mom when you would head out for your morning walks, no matter the season. I especially recall the late spring and throughout the summer, when your garden was always a stop on your walk. You would often report back, and sometimes bring in a handful of some delight that had just ripened.

I remember Mom when you stood at the stove, or the kitchen sink. Preparing the next meal or cleaning up from the last one. The fruits of your labor have been abundant. From day to day, and across the decades.

I love walks outside, just like Mom. I chronicle life’s happenings in journals. Just like my Mom. I have judged my mom harshly at times, especially in my younger years. Wishing she would speak up more for herself. Wishing she would be emotionally available. And yet, there is much I respect and appreciate in my mom. Ways I am very much my mother’s daughter.

I live gratefully, just like Mom. I am my own person. Mom was and is her own person. There are things she will never understand about me, even before her mind began to fade. There are things I will never understand about her, even though I have worked hard to accept and appreciate what she did and did not provide for me, one of her thirteen children.

This month marks eight years since Mom made her own decision to leave the farm and her garden and move to the nursing home nearby. The pictures included here are from those last days before the move. The photographer is my niece Katie. Thank you Katie for capturing this amazing woman and that wistful time so preciously.

Mom’s garden is only a shell of what it used to be. There will be asparagus early, maybe a handful of raspberries later in the season. Mom is only a shell of who she used to be. But in me, in each of us she bore, and the children we have gone on to bring into the world, and the growing next generation, Mom is our base, Dad is our base. They are the foundation. Their garden still grows. For this, and for them, I am deeply grateful.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom! I love you. I miss you.