my grandmother had a garden
complete with any kind of flowers you can begin to think of
irises, violets, daisies, daffodils to name a few
stretching as far as the yard could hold in its strong, comforting arms.

i remember her
on a particularly hot day
poured over her favorite antiqued yellow roses
her straw hat hanging above her eyes
the back of her neck getting sunburned as her thick black and grey braid of hair and her forest green shirt did not cover that spot
i put down my toy gun and ceased my adventuring to watch her work

she dug at the soil with
thin, spindly, wrinkled fingers
and i watched as she planted the smallest white roses i think i have ever seen
she turns to me and smiles
her eyes like jade pools of love and hope
“these are for you” she said
her voice giving a little shake

i caress the silk like petals with my rough fingertips
a smile playing on my lips
“i will treat this as my son, grandma” i say as i grab my toy gun and run off

but before my grandmother
disappears from sight
i watch her once again from over my shoulder
pouring over the flowers
as if she were Mother Nature herself