Fragrant Pain

Apologizing to the bees as I snipped off long stems of anise hyssop, the fuzzy purple flowers scented the air and my hands with aromas of licorice and mint. Stopping at the hydrangeas, I chose the smaller lime green heads tinged with deep pink to add to my armful of blooms. It is late September in the garden, the mist clings to the tall zinnias who are still blooming, they seem to offer their stems for cutting. I gather bunches of blue spirea and head to the herb boxes and clip swaths of peppermint and rosemary, the heavy air holds their fragrance. Tears mingle with rain as I lay out the bounty the garden has provided, starting with the hyssop I start to build the bouquet for Justin’s grave.

Wrapping the twine in and around the stems, tying off with a knot, I am aware of all my muscles knotted in anticipation. Justin died ten years ago, but the body holds the trauma, it waits for the unseen body slam of hearing that your son has died.

The mental partitions in my brain that keep the reality of how he died crumble in the days leading up to the anniversary. It can start with a small breach, a memory, the scent of chrysanthemums, and I can hear the knock on the door of the kind, gentle state trooper who had to tell us that Justin was dead. I divert more mental energy to keep the partitions up, because it gets no easier after ten years, and I can’t breathe when I remember those minutes and hours unfolding as we learned details of his death.

I lost myself this year and it had nothing to do with COVID-19.  The pain this year has been too much, so many hours of darkness. I knelt in the rich soil of the garden to restore my soul as spring arrived. I gave the earth my pain as I planted seedlings, she returned that pain with the beauty of petals and vines, with buzzing bees and elegant butterflies. The hot summer melted into Autumn and I am no where nearer to finding myself, but I am safely lost in the garden. Tomatoes and zinnias are some of the most honest souls on this planet.

Cradling a clematis plant in my hands, her stems brown and spent, I marveled at her robust and long roots. I had no idea she had such luxurious roots hidden in the soil, all I could see was the crisp brown of a weary plant. We moved she and her sister to a new spot in the garden, taking the time to dig deep and spread out her lengthy roots and tuck them in for the cold weather. In impenetrable darkness she will send out tiny roots searching for nutrients and water, and rest, she will rest in the dark not fearing the winter. A plant goes into that darkness with no fear, they give themselves over to the earth and the quiet of the season. They trust that spring will arrive with refreshing rains and a sun that rides higher in the sky so as to warm the rich soil and coax it back to life.

The bouquet fills the car with the heady scents of our garden, unique to our little patch. We arrive at the graveyard and walk the familiar path to Justin’s grave. Anger washes over me, angry that his body is under my feet. Angry at the harsh reality of life. It’s cold and misty, his headstone wet with rain, we wipe the clumps of grass from the stone base. We rest the offering of our pain against the cold stone, the flowers and herbs are a kaleidoscope of colors and textures against the marble, a perfumed slice of home.

We miss you Christopher Robin.

“Wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the forest,
a little boy and his Bear will always be playing” ~ A. A. Milne