Dear Dad,
The white peony bush you planted over 30 years ago at the house is blooming, and I am here to see it this year. I have been weeding around it and fussing over it, anticipating the opening of dozens of sweet, breezy blooms.
Even though you are not here with us, you know that it’s blooming. In fact, you know everything I’m going to tell you in this letter because you are part of the universal, all-seeing love that is God.
Jimmy and I are here helping to take care of Mom. I spend as much time as I can outside, and I am drawn to the many flowers you planted decades ago that are still here. I feel a need to care for them and love them because they are yours. I feel close to you when I am tending to the things you brought to life here.
One of my best memories of you was the time we planted peppers and tomatoes when you had the garden down at the bottom of the front hill. You showed me how deep to dig the holes and how to mix in just the right amount of fertilizer, and our garden took off. I think that’s when my love of plants began. It was a gift you gave me that day—one I would keep my entire life.
Your white lilac bloomed in late May. I got to bury my nose in the blooms and breathe in their glorious fragrance the way I loved to do when I was a kid. The lilac bush looks like it nearly died some time ago, but it came back from the roots. I will prune it this year and research what it needs to be fully healthy again. I promise.
Remember the columbines you planted on the side of the back porch? There is one plant remaining—the deep purple one. I think they got choked out by the money plants. They’re pretty, but they’re invasive. I’m going to surround the columbine with some annuals you liked--marigolds and zinnias.
Last weekend I weeded your bed of irises. Two are blooming now, and that might be it for this year, but with some separation and care, they’ll come back better next season.
I made the mistake of weed whacking the little peonies in that raised area by the hedgerow. When I took a look and realized what I’d done, I saw the poppies you had planted there as well. The area gets a lot of shade now, so I put in some impatiens and mulched the bed. I’m hoping you like how it looks.
Your Talisman rose is blooming by the cellar door. A little rose you transplanted from the woods is about to blossom in the area where your shed and greenhouse once stood. Ben helped us turn the foundation into a nice spot for a fire pit. Jimmy and I enjoy a fire there every Saturday evening. One of your Rose of Sharon bushes is still there. I’m tending it and looking forward to the day it blooms.
I marvel at these plants. They are not the hothouse flowers of gardening magazines. (But then neither were you and I.) They are hardscrabble survivors. These plants have made their way back every year through unrelenting winters and weeds that got ahead of everyone who did their best to conquer them. They are living examples of your love here on earth—each a reminder that love is endless. It never dies.
On Memorial Day, I went to see your grave for the very first time. You’ve been gone nearly 22 years. I just couldn’t go to your grave until now. I planted a red geranium and some dusty miller by your name. Jimmy put a little American flag next to them. He saluted you and said, “Thank you for your service to our country and thank you for your daughter.” That’s when I cried.
I know you know this, but I will be taking good care of your flowers as long as we are here. The flowers you planted and the flowers I planted in your honor. Thank you for leaving us with so much love at our homestead. I’m here now, Dad. Your love is in bloom. And I love you.
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