They sit in the dirt.
Neither knowing that the other is sitting under the same blue sky about 30 minutes down the road. I’m sure she never imagined her son would marry the other’s daughter, and especially not that they would have a kid who loved flowers more than anything else.
Soon, they both would pass on their knowledge of all things planting, gardening, annuals, and perennials to that very child.
Geraniums, hollyhocks, marigolds, dahlias, irises—watercolor blooms that had been painted onto me before I ever knew their names.
My grandma on my dad’s side plants marigolds at her late husband’s grave every spring. There was probably something earlier, but the first memory of gardening that stands out is going with her one year to commemorate my grandpa’s memory.
He died when I was three. Despite not having any memories of him outside of pictures, a part of me felt sad whenever someone mentioned his name; I missed him. Planting flowers for him gave me a way to process his death. I know it sounds stupid, but that’s how I felt.
I asked her why she always planted marigolds. For one, it was his favorite flower—he loved bright colors—and he liked it when things looked nice and put together. She figured he would appreciate a decorated resting place. Equipped with gloves and a trowel, we squeezed the marigolds out of the black plastic container, dug some holes, and planted them. After we were done, I stepped back to survey my work. I thought it beautiful that I, only about seven at the time, had created something that my grandpa would love.
My other grandma is my Yaya. She chose this name for herself because she always wanted to be the one to say “yes” to her grandchildren—“ya, ya.”
Every year, usually in July, she takes me and a few of my cousins out for a day to shop at plant nurseries and garden sales. Not only does this give us a chance to bond and catch up, but it also makes me feel like I had an opinion that was valuable, especially when I was younger. When my Yaya takes us out, we don’t just go our separate ways and choose our own plants. This is a group project. Since this tradition started about five years ago, she always asks, “Should I buy an azalea? ” or “Maybe this ground cover will go better with the bleeding hearts…what do you think?”
Sure, flowers are small and relatively insignificant, but the fact that she didn’t think of me any differently because I was younger than her broadened my perspective and gave me self-confidence.
And this extended to when we went home to put the flowers in the dirt. Both of us helped each other with the other’s flowers. Even if she had just bought one, I was expected to hold the shovel. Even if I had bought twenty, she would help me with every single one of them.
I don’t think I’d be the same person if I didn’t have gardening. Even though I don’t garden with my grandma and Yaya as much as I used to, the experience and knowledge they passed on have stuck with me. Now, when I water my tiger lilies, I hear my Yaya telling me to snip the dead buds. When I see marigolds for sale, I think of my grandma.
They, even if they didn’t intend it, gave me a gift I’ll never take for granted.
