A Legacy of Notes Come Flowing

Most days I would go to the garden to wait for her, sometimes for an hour and sometimes just a few seconds. Nevertheless, I spent a great deal of time in the garden. Everyday I was waiting for a touch, a voice, an explanation; and nothing came. What does it matter, the garden was beautiful.

The brick wall that cages her garden was tall, and the bricks were old and rounded on the corners from the wind and the Ivy that climbed it. I enter the garden through the south gate; a tall and rusted wrought iron gate lets me in. To the left the wall is flanked with holly hocks, tall and colorful, but informal. Standing lower than these but just in front are the delphinium and fox glove. Beds of flox creep below these flowers and in the summer the left side of the garden is always teaming with butterflies and humming birds. I know that she constructed this portion when she was happy, and when I am happy I sit on the bench in the east section to the left of the gate.

When I am sad, I go the north end of her garden to wait for her. Coming through that gate I can tell where it will be that I sit. The north section is a very serious lot. It shows me her dark side. Tall junipers trimmed to perfection line the north wall. A swerving line of boxwoods border the junipers omitting their musky smell. And with in each curve of the boxwoods stands a burning bush. In the fall that is the only color the north garden shows. Her burning bushes bleed through the days and nights of autumn, waiting for her return, for her nurturing hand and for her hum, always waiting.

The west side however, is a cool and reflective place. Along the long wall is a mote or pool. Calm and steady it sits beside the wall and enjoys the tickles of the Ivy that drops its lanky leaves onto its surface. The bench on the west side faces the wall and its mote, and hanging in the center of the west wall is a concrete sculpted face of a woman crying, with her face peering downward toward the water.
The south end of the garden from which I enter is informal and unfinished. It reminds me of her folly, and spontaneous vibe. This is where she experimented; there are all kinds of flowers in this section near the gate. A dogwood shades one section and beneath its canopy are a plethora of lilies of the valley. Daisies and coneflowers can be found here next to southern azaleas full of prominence. Hibiscus and peonies stand side by side. She discriminated not, in this portion, and it is as beautiful as the others.

But where is she, I have been so diligent in my visits and not once has she validated my loyalty. And all at once it came to me, this is her garden, this is her song. She is always in the garden, even when I am not. And in the garden, this self--constructed masterpiece for once she reveals herself. She shows how dark she could be at times in the north side, and how playful she could be in the east. In the west she shows you her patience and her steadiness and in the south she is an activist. Why did I not see her sooner? Why did I not hear her whisper to me in the humming of the little birds? Why couldn't I see her tears on the brick wall in the sculpture and hear her laughter in the wind?

In the end I realized something. The garden was hers, and it spoke of her and in her absence it sang her song. A legacy of notes came flowing. She gave me the garden to help me heal. And it has sustained me, it kept her with me.

How long will I need the garden, how long will I pace its walks and crouch on its benches? Will I ever stop grooming her hedges or clipping her flower tops? I have found that the garden always let me in. It rose to whatever occasion I called for. There were days that the junipers smelt liquor on my breath as I passed, and the mote caught my tears on many days. There were days that I came with a book and ignored the garden, and there were days that I nodded off to sleep. But there were also days that I was in awe of the garden and I examined each frond, each petal. However I graced the garden it returned the favor. Whatever my mood was before I entered the garden, the garden seemed to reflect it. The garden gave me life when all I could see was death and happiness when all I could be was sad. In the garden I could feel safe even when I was afraid. That's what it gave her as well, only she was the gardener. This was here sculpture, her opus.

Sometime has passed and I still need the garden, I need the dogwood, I need the summer flowers and the ivy. I long for their presence because they too are alive. Their life was brought here by her, and painted onto this canvas in her own design. I will always need the garden, because I will always need her.

Thank you for showing me the garden BJ-- I love you.

Billie Jean Carter Storms
1932-2007