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A light rain is falling as I stroll through the dreary winter landscape of my backyard garden. The grassy path is sodden by a week of steady rain and my boots make little sucking sounds as I make my way to the rose trellis toppled by a recent storm. As a rule, I avoid the garden in the wintertime. It's a collection of barren fruit trees with leaves and fallen fruit decomposing beneath them. The last of the autumn flowers are shriveled and brown; struck down by frost. Everything about the garden in winter reminds me of something I've lost and memories of a loved one gone, but not forgotten.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Gordon stopped breathing shortly after two, on Father's Day, as I sat by his side and tenderly caressed his deeply wrinkled brow. Blinded by burning tears, I said my final goodbyes, gently pulled the blanket over his face, and walked to the living room to call my son. "He died" were the only words I could choke out between sobs.

"Don't worry, Mom," Joey said, "Go outside to the garden. I'll be right there to take care of everything."

I knew that Joey would call his brother, Bobby, and together they would save their mother the grim chore of attending to the necessary final arrangements. Reluctantly, I took the advice and made my way to the backyard garden where Gordon and I had spent so many days at work, and play, and quiet times together doing nothing at all. Gordon loved being in the garden as much as I did and it is difficult turning my back on him to walk out that door alone.

It's a beautiful garden - a Victorian cottage garden - where an abundance of Old English roses are the stars and vintage varieties of annuals and perennials crowd around them like adoring fans. The sweet damask fragrance of the David Austin roses hangs heavy in the air from June through September and abundant blooms weave a tapestry of soft pastels to calm and soothe the senses. From the back door, a narrow grass pathway winds its way between overflowing flower beds. Clumps of lavender and rosemary brush against my pant legs and reward me with their pungent scents as I pass. I sit for a few minutes on the bench beneath an arbor smothered in star jasmine and drink in the sweet perfume before continuing my stroll. As always, I walk the path slowly, stopping frequently to smell or admire a particularly beautiful bloom, perhaps bending down to pluck an errant weed, or to coax a ladybug onto my finger and then watch her fly away. This is the real beauty of the cottage garden.

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