I imagine my mother in the garden in the early morning, bending over the flowerbeds, choosing which flowers to cut for the posy she placed in my room. She has slipped a jacket on over her frail white cotton nightdress, and is moving softly about the garden, appraising each plant with love.
My mother enjoys the garden most in the early morning, or just at the close of day, but especially in the morning before the dew has evaporated, when the air is fresh and fragrant and all is quiet. Then, walking slowly about the garden, she is at her most gentle, as though the garden had imparted its own tranquility to her. Her appreciation of the flowering plants is almost ecstatic; she can hardly contain the joy she feels in their presence. She bends down to lift a flower head so that she can look into the upturned bloom, her eyes drink in the colour, shape, texture; her sensibilities are those of an artist, her wonder that of a child.
She remains a powerful force in my life. Now at a geographical distance from her, I miss her sorely, and grieve, for she is elderly and the years in which we shall have each other's company are numbered.