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by letting his garden die, maybe some of the memories, the painful memories of what we'd lost, would die with it.

Years passed. My brother went away to college, I went off to work. My mother stayed in the house, and it remained the hub of our family, our home base where we would gather at holidays and school breaks to laugh and share. It finally became easier to reminisce about my father, and we would regale each other with hilarious moments we'd had with him, touching and loving experiences. It was still painful, but it had turned to a quiet pain that fueled the love between all of us.

I moved home again when I was twenty-five, to take care of my mother, and myself. I'd had trouble for years with depression and anxiety, and needed a place to get my life back together. I found myself sitting for hours at the kitchen window, perched on the counter next to the sink, staring out at the back yard. The ground cover consisted more of weeds than actual grass, and the dog that mom had gotten years ago had added to the shamble it had become.

I started spending more and more time back there, mowing and trimming. I planted grass seeds, zoysia, which my father had planted in the front yard one year and which now had taken over most of the neighborhood. The next Spring the yard was looking better; the grass was spreading, thick and green, and the small trees and bushes were neatly cut. On a whim, I decided to plant some strawberries. As I dug into the earth, the smell of it hit me, taking me back. It was rich; a deep, moist black. I rolled it in my fingers, warming it from it's Spring chill. It was good dirt, I thought to myself, smiling.

I spent that Spring on my hands and knees in the backyard, buying more seeds whenever I was out. By mid-Summer, a square of about ten feet had been tilled and planted, the ground reformed into small hills and valleys. Carrot and onion tops once again began appearing in orderly rows, and I gingerly worked and weeded around them, eager for my first harvest.

It's Fall now, and I've just pulled down a healthy crop of corn. I had friends over for a bar-b-que the other night, and they were amazed that they were eating corn on the cob I had grown myself. I smiled, swelling with pride, and offered them some to take home.

The gardening season is over this year, and I'm feeling more than a little nostalgic. I get it now, how my father felt about his garden. There's such a sense of peace, and accomplishment when you work the soil with your own hands, and "reap what you sow." I've come to understand a lot of things in the time I've spent there, as I listen to the wind rustle through my plants, whistling cheerfully beneath a hot midday sun. I'm feeling better, more hopeful, about the future than I have in a long time.

Next year, I plan to grow those itchy tomatoes.

Learn more about this author, Kristina Grace Gordon.
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