"Yellow Roses" by Kristin Crawford

A while after Mother's death, the garden began to wither. Autumn arrived for the first time, sucking the life from the flowers and trees. I didn't notice at first, I never went into the garden unless I had to. One night our cat refused to come in, and darted into the garden to hide. Michael, now aged six, came crying to me. The garden was haunted, he was sure. I calmed him down and sent him to bed, then went to fetch the cat.

It was a clear October night, and the moon was in its second quarter. I crept into the garden, calling the cat's name and making squeaking noises. I heard the crackling leaves, and realized the trees' branches were bare. The moon filtered through the bare branches, casting the withered flowers in a ghostly light.

Gone were the vivid colours of the garden, gone was the vibrant life, and pungent scents and dazzling beauty. Mother's soul had fed the garden, and now it was gone. The garden no longer lived.

Something brushed against my leg, and I jumped in surprise. It was just the cat, of course. I swept him into my arms, and hurried out of the garden.

It was five more years until I dared go back into the garden. I was 22, and had come home for Thanksgiving. Michael was 11, and used to having to fend for himself. Father still worked in the bush, but came home more often. He complained about old bones dragging him down. The cat rarely left his spot by the window, moving only to stay in the sun, or to sit on the vent on overcast days. I decided it was important for me to say good-bye to Mother. Six years after her death, and it was finally time to say good-bye.

The day was slightly overcast, a crisp November afternoon. Michael was off at a friends house, Father off in the bush. I walked into the garden almost reverently, and looked around slowly. The ground was covered in dead leaves and brown grass. A cold wind tore through the skeletal limbs of half-dead trees. I bent down to touch the ground, acting on some gut feeling. I brushed the brittle leaves away from a corner of the flower bed. Hiding beneath the leaves was a small sprout. A tiny bit of life trying to escape its prison.

I wept then. Mother's spirit was still in the garden, here to say good-bye to me. The tears flowed, hitting the dirt and watering the tiny spark of life. And a miracle happened. The flower grew right before my eyes. Blooming into a breathtaking yellow rose. Mother's favourite flower. She always smelled of them, and my nose was filled with the fragrant scent.

After the tears stopped, the rose was gone. The tiny green sprout vanished into oblivion, Mother's soul finally at rest.

I have my own garden, a tiny little scrap of dirt behind my house. Mostly yellow roses, and daises. My daughter spends all her time there. Whenever I catch a whiff of yellow roses I think of Mother and smile. In her own way, she cared for us very much.