The journey of decades always comes back to this little garden.  Three sons, they grow, move out, the grandkids…and each year, around this time, the Spring fully commits and he can venture out, sniff the air, and get his hands in the dirt.

The sun was setting each day slightly further to the right, until it reached the gray steeple, and sure enough the first snowdrops emerged.

The soil is still slightly cold. The interconnected roots welcome him back, sense his health, loop him in. 

He is part of the Spring.  Part of this angle of sun and length of day.  Generations of local birds have flown and hopped around him.

His wife watches from time to time, standing in the window…

Even she doesn’t know that, for a select few, soil can nourish the body, undo things like neuropathy, turn back time.

Kneeling on the ground, his neck growing red, he is the membrane between Spring and soil.  The sun, the water, the upward growth, pass through him.

The garden is renewed in a pulse of light.

And now for months it will be:  Dad’s outside.  Grandpa’s with his flowers.  Can you smell the flowers on Grandpa?

*

Lucky man, to live in the smell of hyacinth and woodbine.  To have grass-stained knees again.  But there’s more.  The garden extends:

Six months ago, the seed catalogues started arriving.  In March, he took virtual classes and surfed the chatrooms.  Then it was regular visits to the nursery—that goldmine.

Now, like clockwork, his schedule’s changing, and so is his wife’s.

“I don’t feel like TV.  Let’s sit outside.”

“It’s warm enough.  Let’s eat outside.”

To be near the garden.