Yesterday I took a walk along the more residential route in my neighborhood. This route takes me by the house where the gentleman who inspired the poem “To the Old Man Gardening During a Pandemic”. Faithful readers know that his house is now owned by another family (“A Post For the Old Man and his Garden”).
I now have an answer to the question about his flowers… they are gone.
The trees still dot the backyard, but all the flowers have been replaced with grass. There is not a single flower left.
I stood at the T junction where, in the backyard he grew a variety of flowers that ran parallel with the streets. The roses would follow you when you turned right. Then tulips. As spring turned to summer that turned to fall, new colors would appear as seasonal flowers bloomed.
Now it is a sea of green. I can appreciate the open space for the children. To run, to play catch or frisbee. But don’t children deserve flowers, too?
But I know what reality I was truly fighting in my heart. That when we are gone, time can remove the evidence of our lives. Yes, I remember his garden… but I never knew his name. I’m sure there are neighbors who notice the change to the yard, but soon, they will forget the flowers, too.
I am sad thinking about it, but also I remember him sitting on his bucket, working the ground. Season after season. Somehow I know he was happy when he saw the colors of his garden come to life. The pride he felt everyday was expressed in the beauty of his backyard. We would always give each other a small wave hello when I walked by… maybe that is what I miss the most.
It is all Connected 