My son would have turned 20 yesterday. Moving out of his teens, something to celebrate. But he will be forever 19. I made it through the day ok. I think with all the crying I have done in the last two weeks, was a preparation for when his birthday would arrive.
Today, I finally started his little garden spot in his memory. My mom had brought plants, and a little plaque with an angel on it. But, on that day, all we did was talk. Well, she talked, and I cried. I do not usually cry in front of people. I just do not do vulnerability. But on that day, I guess I finally began to crack. My armor, my shield, the mask, whatever it took to keep me together, just fell away. So, there was no creating the garden, mom just listened. And that was all I needed on that day.
Fast forward two weeks, and now some of the plants she brought were starting to fade from neglect. They were making me feel anxious, I could feel them cry out to me as I scurried past Shoulders heavy with guilt of their care. “Don’t look at me!” I wanted to say as I scurried past them, their budding heads hanging in want. My heart could only take so much.
So, today was the day. The sun was beckoning between gray flat plains of clouds. The air was cool. And I had energy to spend. So I rounded up my blue wheelbarrow, put on some gloves, meandered around my yard looking for a shovel. I got distracted several times, walking by all the new growth coming up from last year. Waxing on philosophical in my mind. About time, and growth, and seasons and such. It took about thirty minutes but I muscled myself back on track, shovel in hand, and got productive.
It felt so good.
It made my heart happy.
Little seeds of happiness were planted.
And I am pretty sure my son smiled.
It was a good day.