Friend to the Plants

I watched his twice daily traipse to the garden begin again in late spring. Though he enjoys the odd triumph due to a rather strong corn stalk or a healthy crop of beans, he hangs his head at the sight of the empty bee house each day. I’ve overheard him telling visitors that there just aren’t any bees around, and I realize that despite my persistent buzzing around his favorite crops, he doesn’t know I am present. I am resting upon the strawberry bushes, I play amongst the trees, and I surf the winds to see the entirety of the yard and the garden beds as often as they blow. I feel such a sense of pride soaring over the long cement walls of the garden beds, and I can still remember him churning them in the mixer. Each garden ornament remains exactly as it had been placed last year, most needing a good rinse from the hose. I announce my presence the best I can, buzzing with the verve I wish he himself possessed, but he remains afraid and despondent.

I understand his feeling of longing and grief. I miss being with family in the yard on a hot day, sipping cool nectars, putting the work aside for a while, but in the past year it feels like all he and I do is work. He felt an urgency this year to begin working the ground, an urgency that felt nothing like eagerness and excitement as it did in years past. He was tired of lying dormant: he needed to busy his hands and his body again. Working keeps his mind occupied, and so most of the time he can think about what he yields instead of what he lacks. When he’s alone, he sometimes asks aloud for a sign I’m around. I wish I could look him in the eye so he would know.

This year there are marigolds planted in between the plants that aren’t thriving. I’ve never seen him plant flowers with the vegetables, but I overheard our eldest granddaughter telling him that Marigolds are a friend to tomato plants; the golden flower assists the life around it by drawing out various harmful insects and nematodes. He was hesitant at first, wondering what could be done with a marigold flower once all of the plants it had served were harvested and serving great purpose. He’s spent his life making something out of nothing at all as a farmer, and he firmly believes that it was his responsibility to create only things that would not go to waste. At the very least, he had decided that the edible flowers could be used in chicken feed, and that the roots and stems would make nice addition to his compost.

Today I hope he can see me here for what I really am. I have made my way to the back garden today, far from the bee house, where the marigolds are hard at work. The warm glow of the flowers amongst the rest of the greens and greys is completely striking, and the glow is accompanied by a strong hum. As I drift closer, I find him paused at the garden gate in disbelief. Frolicking amongst the flowers of sunshine were bees, almost an entire full bee houses worth, eager to work, create, and nurture. He approaches the bed and I can see that his eyes are glistening with tears once more, but this time, he smiles. I descend to the flower directly in front of him with hopes that today he’ll know. His hand shakes as it slowly extends to gently cradle the marigold flower I am perched on. He looks down at me in adoration, just as he always had our entire life. I float slowly to meet his eye line, and I watch the same silver tear roll down his cheek that rolled down mine the day he held my hand and I left my body beside him. “Ann,” he whispers, “it really is you.”