Columbines in July

Dear Uncle Mark,

I have done some really dumb things since you died.

I can’t really tell you these things, because—well, we just covered that. But somehow, I have faith that you can hear me anyway. It has always been that way with us, and some things don’t change.

I want to apologize for not visiting you more often at the cemetery. When you asked once if I would go, I said I would, and I have, a few times. Last time, I brought jewel-toned irises. Today I brought peach gladiolus shot through with gold, glamorous like the 1940’s movie stars you loved.

I’m not sure where you went, but I know you are not there.

My daughter asks why we need cemeteries to remember. Why do people want to remember at all, she asks, if it is less painful and easier to forget?

The dumbest thing I’ve probably been doing is destroying my suburban lawn and replacing it with plants. Sounds reasonable on the surface, right? But I’m buying plants that have no shot in hell of surviving here, in the blistering July heat and dryness, that wither like raisins and crunch like bleached bones on the face of the desert. A few days ago, I planted two white columbines. Online, they looked like angels. Out of the box, they look like overgrown clover, already starting to yellow and fray at the edges.

In my head, I can see them shining like stars, nodding in agreement with the breeze.

In my yard, I can see their curly little leaves convulsing in protest. I dump water on them in a halfhearted attempt to revive them, to shock them into latching on. Dig and cover. Cover and dig.

Last week I planted a white Agrostemma “Ocean Pearls,” white blossoms drizzled with silver. This week I buried the rest of it in gravel, shriveled stems, leaves, and all.

Next week I have pink checkermallow arriving in August. It is native to Oregon and needs water. Like the rest of the West, we are in a drought. I don’t buy only drought-resistant plants. I want those lush beauties that depend on me, that need me to water them, that need me. I want columbines in July.

I’m also wasting money on annuals. Why buy flowers that are so short-lived, only meant to make it a few months, gamble on whether they reseed or not?

Because they are beautiful. Because they have a right to be loved before the frost comes.

I’ve never liked picking flowers from the garden. They fade so quickly once they are in a vase. But now I’m realizing that in some ways, to be chosen, to be loved and appreciated while they are here, is the best gift I can give them.

I can’t seem to stop myself from making these poor decisions. The plants line up in the strip of shade outside the back door, awaiting their fate, victims of a sorrow so deep and so wide I don’t have the words. Dig and cover. Cover and dig.

I want spring to follow winter, and life to follow death. It is not a win if my blanketflowers or my manzanita thrive in the heat. Things with deep roots and thorns will always survive. But if I can get newborn and pastel flowers, lacy, delicate little lives to take and grow at the wrong place, at the wrong time, maybe I will feel better.

Maybe I will feel.

Next week my giant blue delphinium comes, and my apricot hollyhock. Because, you know, we live in the most prosperous nation in the world and we can do anything, be anything, buy anything if we only have the means and the will. Why not barbecue hollyhocks in the roasting oven of an August backyard during climate change? Winter will be back before we know it. Dig and cover. Cover and dig.

Trying to replace your life with more life is one of the dumb things I have done. I never told you I was a very good person, or a very wise one. My grief is self-centered, hisses like the serpent in the garden. It is a circle, a cycle, round and running through and over things. I’m not connected to the web, those threads reaching out and attaching to others. I know I should donate to charities, volunteer for causes, but right now, I am still in the circle, in the middle, alone. Nothing reaches me. I honestly don’t care about the extra waste of water to keep the columbines alive, only that they live.

When you were diagnosed, we never talked about what would happen afterwards. The fact that it would happen was always hard enough. The word “discover” is so close to what I do in the garden, dig and cover, cover and dig, only one letter away from release. But I’m not sure what treasure I am supposed to find. Summer outside, still winter inside.

Your stimulus check arrived a few days ago, close to six months to the day you died. And the IRS knows—the abbreviation “DECD” was right there next to your name on the front of the check. It’s a little late for this, I thought, and Googled what I was supposed to do now. I followed their directions, wrote “VOID” on the signature line, and mailed it to an office in Fresno, California. So, if you get a chance to do a little haunting, you might want to put in an appearance there. I’m thinking they would be surprised to see you.

I know from when my father died that this gets easier, that it gets better with time. The big boulder of grief gets worn from the river, the daily flow and routines of life, and it loses its jagged edges, the places where it can cut the deepest. But the river never really flows the same way again. The water never moves over certain spots without touching the boulder, without a gentle bumping and bruising, without remembering and reminding.

I didn’t get a choice of when I had to let you go. But I get a choice about what I hold onto, and how lightly or tightly I grasp.

Okay, I have to go for now. I need to make dinner, and pay bills, and all the other normal, mind-numbing, tedious things that you no longer need to worry about doing. You have been given the ultimate “get out of jail card,” huh? With a little luck, I will bring you apricot hollyhocks next time I come to the cemetery. And if you happen to be out of town—say, making a visit to Fresno, California—I’ll catch up with you later.

Love always,

Your niece,

Heather

Funeral Service

Apart