I remember my grandmother faintly, not unlike fragmented moments from a dream which one may try to cling to and recall upon waking up.  It’s the minute things that hang in the midst of my memory. If I close my eyes in search of her, it always takes me back to the garden.

I remember the feeling of her wrinkled hand holding mine. I have no recollection of her voice but remember it telling me stories as we sat on the white bench with painted lilies. Her garden was where we fed pigeons with breadcrumbs, where she told me how the rustling of the leafs made it seems like the trees and the bushes were whispering. Sharing secrets and confiding in one another. She told me dandelions carry our wishes to the skies, and that the Woodbines are the tiny crowns worn by the garden fairies.

One evening I overheard my mother crying, heard her talking about the fire. In that moment I thought, surely the fairies would have rescued grandma and grandpa, or the leafs would have spread their whispers to the wind to put the flames out. But it all turned to darkness and ash. I remember curling up under immense weight of loss and grief.

She was gone. Yet her love seemed to linger, engulfing and soothing me like a warm blanket on cold nights. Each time I closed my eyes to enjoy the smell of flowers, or lay in fresh grass,  it felt as though a part of her was still there, intertwined with my memories and chirping of birds and musky scent of roses.

Now I sit in my own little sanctuary, my garden, watching her great grandchildren play. They know her stories and relish in the little gifts of nature in full bloom.

I whisper to the dandelion. Although it is not a wish. Just two simple words. And I hope that the wind carries them up into the skies, to her.

“Thank you.”