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I hated the garden.

My father had planted and worked it in our backyard for years, from about the time I was born. Towers of tomato vines formed shadowed hallways, twisting themselves sinuously around the metal fencing that supported them. Every few feet hundreds of carrots, onions and horseradish sprouted in ordered lines. He even grew the near toxic hot banana peppers for a short time. My brother had helped him harvest them once, then had unwittingly wiped his eye, giving himself a pretty serious burn. My father immediately ripped the peppers out.

Every Spring for as long as I could remember, he would tend to the garden whenever he could; planting, watering, weeding and harvesting. Our house would be inundated with fresh vegetables all throughout the Summer. He could often be seen walking the neighborhood, stopping at our neighbors' houses to offer them the surplus. Never asking for anything in return, merely taking pleasure in being a farmer of sorts, and being able to share his bounty. I was at times embarrassed by him as he walked along whistling, a basket of massive shining tomatoes slung over an arm.

I would toil alongside him during the Summers, but I hated being in the garden. The swarms of biting insects, the snakes, the scratchy feel of the tomato leaves like sandpaper across sunburned skin. Digging in the dirt for vegetables, the bane of every child's existence, was not quite my idea of fun at that age. I did it out of love for my father, but I rejoiced every year when Fall came around: the end of gardening season at last.

My dad got sick when I was twelve, early in the Spring of '93. He died of lymphatic cancer in May at the age of 53. No one was around that Summer to tend to the garden. None of us had the strength; it was too painful. The garden grew wild, tomatoes ripe to bursting fell and rotted on the once clean paths between their columns. Carrot tops were indistinguishable from the riot of weeds that surrounded them. Dad's favorite, the horseradish, was eaten clean through by rabbits and insects. In late Summer, the corn came up, withered and stunted, the sound as the breeze touched them sounding like the death rattle of some long forgotten creature.

Winter came that year, covering the garden, burying its gentle rises and falls with glistening white. When Spring came it was barely recognizable. Over the next few years the grass overtook it, and it was eventually mowed over. We never spoke of it, my mother, brother and I. Perhaps we felt that

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