Trails of a Garden Past

I still remember the first year Grandma decided she couldn't garden anymore. In truth, the decision had been about four years overdue, but a shock to the family nonetheless. Back then her mind had still been fairly sharp, a wealth of gardening knowledge waiting to be passed to the next grandchild who actually gave a shit.

We all took too long, so now I have to do things the hard way.

I stand outside Grandma’s near-empty house, taking note of the ‘For Sale’ sign at the edge of the yard. Mom and the rest of the family had agreed there was no reason to keep the house if no one wanted to live in it, and who could blame them? The neighborhood was slowly falling apart, with dilapidated houses on every other corner. People up and down the street had long since moved out, and realtors and appraisers had already begun surveying the surrounding properties to decide whether to flip or demolish — the early signs of gentrification. My family wasn't the type to stand in the way of such progress, regardless of how much we hated it.

An old man sitting on his porch next door waves in my direction. “Y’all sellin’ that house?” he asks, his gapped teeth giving way to a dull lisp.

I nod, subtly angling my head towards the sign in the yard.

“Mmph,” the man grunts, shaking his head. “Ain’t nobody left in this neighborhood.”

I have nothing to say to that, so I just offer a “sorry” shrug and head inside.

I walk through the house, memories of different points of my childhood replaying in my head as I pass each room. All fond memories, but none I actually came here for. I have to go outside for those.

The hinges of the back door shriek loud enough to pierce my ears as I push it open. I’m greeted by a yard in desperate need of mowing, overrun by weeds. Garden beds line the perimeter of the yard, shrouded with dried plant debris and weeds of their own. Grandma would be rolling in her grave if she saw her garden in this state.

I got the call that Grandma had passed a week after discovering I lacked a green thumb.

I had decided I wanted to get into gardening at the end of last year, and spent the entire winter doing research and purchasing supplies. I did everything on my own, including installing the raised beds I purchased. I felt so accomplished that day. My garden was ready.

Only, none of the seeds I’d started actually survived.

I grieved both my grandmother and my failed garden that week. During her memorial service, I spiraled about how much of a failure I was and how disappointed she would've been if she’d known. When it was my turn to speak on her behalf, I scrapped the speech I’d prepared and instead rambled about the forgotten knowledge that had left this world with Grandma. I ended the speech with a reminder to the young people in the crowd, my millennial relatives included, to listen to our elders’ stories, and to not take their experiences for granted. I left the pulpit with respectful applause, but I felt an awkward energy shift, and my sister’s bewildered gaze on my back.

“I’m going to try to Recall in Grandma’s garden,” I’d explained to her when she confronted me on the way to the repast.

Maya’s eyes widened. “What? Why?”

“It's the only way I can learn all of the things she knew.”

“Gardening stuff? Why not just Google it?”

I shook my head. “It's not the same. Grandma nursed that garden like it was her baby, and she never relied on the Internet or books or anything. It was all instinct. I can't get that kind of knowledge just from reading a bunch of gardening articles online. I tried that already, and look where it got me.”

“Okay, but…are you sure? Grandma lived a long life. A lot of shit went down in that house. What if you learn something you weren't supposed to, or witness something traumatic that Grandma or Mom or one of her siblings went through?”

“All the more reason for me to do this,” I’d said.

And that was that. Maya knew me well enough to know when I’d made up my mind, and she knew she couldn't fight me on this.

“Okay,” she’d said, resigned. “Just be careful.”

I walk over to the bed on the east side of the yard. Her favorite, where she grew okra, tomatoes, and various peppers each year. Grandma’s fried okra was the only kind I would actually eat – anyone else’s was too slimy.

A pang of grief settles on my chest. What wouldn't give to have some of her fried okra again.

I step into the bed, kicking away leaves and debris that had collected after years of neglect. I lay down, tucking my arm precisely under my head to avoid getting dirt in my hair. I wore a headwrap specifically for this purpose, but I still take the extra precaution.

I take a deep breath, centering my awareness to the dirt beneath my feet, becoming one with the earth as I relax my breathing. My consciousness ebbs for a moment before returning, and when I blink awake, the sun is shining brightly overhead, and a woman I don’t recognize leans over me, pulling weeds out of the bed around my body. I know I don't know this woman personally, but I recognize traces of my mother in her features.

“Cece, come here!” the woman calls. “Come help mama pull these weeds up.”

A moment later a little girl who can’t be older than four or five, and who strikingly resembles my sister, comes running up. Understanding rushes over me, and my throat tightens with emotion.

Grandma as a little girl.

Grandma squats and obeys her mother without question, wrapping her small hands around the weeds closest to the edge of the bed and pulling them up one by one. She works diligently in silence for a few moments, then smirks and starts tossing handfuls of weeds in the air, raining dirt and debris over herself and her mother’s shoulders.

I crack a smile. Even as a girl, Grandma was in her element.

“Uh uh, baby,” my great-grandmother, whose name I recall was Rosemary, says. She reaches out and gently but sternly grabs Grandma’s hand. “Don't throw those. Put them in this pile here so we can compost them.”

“Compost?” Grandma echoes.

Rosemary nods. “It's when we take all the parts of pants we don't need and give them back to the earth. They break down into compost, and we feed that to the plants as food.”

“Plants need food?”

Rosemary laughs. “Everything alive needs food, baby.”

Grandma looks at the pile of weeds, then smiles. “I’m glad we can give the plants their food.”

I watch Grandma and Rosemary work, the smile on my face stretching wider. Composting was a lesson Grandma took to her grave. Even when she couldn't garden anymore, she took all of her food scraps to that compost pile behind the house until the day she was bed ridden. I belatedly wonder what has come of that pile now and vow to check it once I wake up.

I stand and walk to another part of the yard, willing the current memory to rush past me. For a moment I feel a twist of grief in my chest at the thought that this beautiful child no longer lives, and I have to remind myself of the peace she's acquired now that she's finally at rest. The grief doesn't fade, but a newfound comfort settles alongside it.

I pause at a bed right next to the house. I’m standing over Grandma as she works to harvest blackberries. Two baskets overflowing with berries sit on either side of her. She looks about five years older now.

Rosemary steps into view, and upon hearing her approach Grandma turns to face her. “Look how many berries I picked, mama!” she beams. “I bet we can make ten pies with these. One for every house on our street.”

Rosemary smiles, but it looks somewhat dejected. I notice how much thinner she looks than in the previous memory, and the bags that have collected under her eyes.

“That’s good, baby,” she says. “You can help me bake the pies after school tomorrow, and we’ll pass them out after church on Sunday.”

I can't imagine my great-grandmother baking one pie with how exhausted she looks, let alone ten.

I close my eyes, and another memory rushes past and manifests in front of me. Grandma and Rosemary are in the adjacent bed, this time harvesting turnips. They both look a few years older and alarmingly thin, and yet, they work tirelessly.

“The turnips are so small,” Grandma observes, looking at their harvest with a disappointed frown. “Will this be enough for everyone?”

“We’ll make it enough,” Rosemary says decidedly. She offers Grandma an encouraging smile. “We always do.”

I can tell she's trying to put on a positive face for Grandma, but I see right through it. I suspect that Grandma does too.

I hear the back door open, and a man who looks at least a decade older than Rosemary stumbles into view, shouting in their direction.

“Fuck you still doin’ out here, woman?” he slurs. “You s’posed to be makin’ dinner!”

“We’re almost done,” Rosemary says, not looking in her husband’s direction. “Dinner will be ready soon. Cece will help.”

“Hmph,” the man grumbles. “Bust my ass all day and can't even come home to a hot meal. Fuck I even keep you around for?”

Rosemary doesn't respond, instead handing Grandma the basket of turnips. “Take these to the kitchen. Can you wash them and get them started for me? You remember how to do it.”

Grandma frowns, her face twisted with concern. She subtly shakes her hand.

“Yes, you do. I know you do.” Rosemary keeps her gaze fixed on her daughter, and I watch her grip tighten on the basket. “Go on, now. I’ll be inside soon.”

“You mind your mama, now,” the man says, shifting closer to the both of them. “Kids don’t need to be around grown folks’ business.”

Grandma stares hard at her mother, and I’m just close enough to see the tears she's holding back. She takes the basket and shuffles inside, keeping a wide berth from the man, who glares in her direction.

My stomach twists. The only thing I’d ever heard about my great-grandfather was that he’d died when Grandma was a teenager. She never talked about him, never displayed any photos of him. Any time I asked Grandma about her life growing up, she only ever talked about her mother.

I suspect I’m about to learn why.

The moment the door closes, Rosemary turns to face her husband. “Why you gotta come home acting like this? Cursing and all that nonsense. In front of Cece?”

“Cece don’t know nothing,” the man grunts.

“She’s smart enough to know when her daddy comes home drunk,” Rosemary snaps.

“I ain’t drunk, woman.”

“And I ain’t stupid.”

The man scowls and takes a threatening step towards her. “You think I got it easy, huh? I get up ‘fore the sun rise every day and sweat till I can’t piss no more, all so I can keep you and that girl fed. You don't think a man earn himself a drink or two after all that?”

“I know you never stop at two,” Rosemary spits. “You ain't got no business spending all that money drinking when you got a family at home. You the only man on our block who still got a job. What you gon’ do when you get laid off next, or when they fire you ‘cause you showed up drunk?”

The sound of his hand against her cheek splits the air. Rosemary stumbles to the ground.

“That’s your problem, Rosemary,” the man sneers, towering over his wife. “You think you know everything. You don’t know what business I got, ‘cause all you do is waste time out here with these damn plants. I come home and you in the same place you was when I left. Ain’t cooked, ain’t cleaned, ain’t done shit but get our child dirty. And then instead of putting food on our table, you go and give it away to everybody else. Keepin’ every damn family on this block fed but ours. Talking ‘bout what I do with my money, when you don’t do shit for this house!”

I clench my fists. This part of my Recall always hurts the most. I want to scream at this waste of a man, whom I refuse to accept as my blood, that he has no idea how good he has it. I want to wrap my arms around Rosemary and tell her it doesn’t have to be like this, that she deserves better. I want to tell Grandma, who I know is watching all of this from the back door window, that despite the cruelty she witnessed as a child she did everything right, and has a beautiful, loving family to show for it.

Instead I can say nothing, beholden to the trail walked before me.

I’ve seen enough. I close my eyes and let the memory pass, bypassing every other memory that involves my great-grandfather. I don’t need to see more of him to know how horrible he was.

Grandma ages before me, growing in both height and curvature with every progression. Despite the impact I know my great-grandfather’s cruelty must have had, not one memory passes that doesn’t show Grandma and Rosemary tending their garden. It’s as if the garden was their sanctuary, their sole escape from the cruelty of husband and father.

I pause as a new sound catches my attention — the sound of several people chatting. I look around as people manifest all around me, none of whom I recognize. They’re all sitting on chairs, eating out of stainless steel bowls. Several children laugh and chase each other around the yard.

All of these people’s bodies look tired and frail, but their faces are bright, and from the sound of their voices, their spirits are high.

“Rosemary know how to make some greens, boy!” A man close to me remarks, shaking his head in delight as he chews.

“I’m fixin’ to go inside for thirds!” another older man laughs.

“The hell you are!” the first man says. “That pot was damn near empty by the time I got my bowl.”

“‘Cause y’all greedy!” a woman sitting at the far edge of the garden shouts, smirking at the men.

The men whoop and gasp and protest the remark, and the entire garden erupts into laughter.

I hear the back door open. Grandma steps into view, carrying a large basket with a cloth draped over it, and a proud smile on her face. She’s several years older, a young woman now. Though her frame is still thin, her face is fuller than it was in the last memory, and her eyes shine with a new level of maturity.

She’s welcomed with jubilant cheers as she strides into the garden.

“I smell Cece’s cornbread!” A woman with a toddler on her arm declares.

Grandma smiles as she reaches into the basket and pulls out a piece of cornbread. The children in the garden rush her, clamoring for their share. Their respective mothers shush them and command them to behave themselves.

“Look how she over there grinnin’,” the man closest to me observes. “She must know it’s good.”

I blink the joyful tears out of my eyes as I progress forward. The sound of laughter fades in and out with each passing memory. For every ten memories of Grandma and Rosemary, there’s another with a crowd of people sharing a meal in the garden. In every memory they look thin and tired with bags collecting under their eyes, but their faces are full of happiness.

I lose myself in Grandma’s story. I watch countless memories of Grandma and Rosemary tending their garden, harvesting produce, and feeding their neighbors. I don’t see any more memories of my great-grandfather. I watch Grandma and Rosemary age, and Rosemary spend less and less time outside until she stops appearing all together.

I watch as Grandma builds her own life, still tending to that garden with every waking day. I see my mother and uncles running around the garden as children, only stopping to help Grandma a handful of times. I feel a pang of resentment towards them for not contributing more to the garden, but I push it down. This garden is Grandma’s legacy, not theirs.

And it’s a legacy I know I want to preserve.

When I finally wake up, the sun is beaming directly over me, and I’m acutely aware of its rays frying my skin. I sit up and stretch, brushing dirt off of my arms. I feel a momentary brush of confusion as I look around the dead, weed-shrouded garden before I realize I’m back in the waking world. I blink, adjusting to the reality before me.

I stand and pull out my phone to dial Mom’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.

“Hey, Mom. Call me as soon as you get this. I want to talk to you about the house. I don't think we should sell it.”

I hang up as I make my way back to my car, vigorously typing how to start a community garden into my web browser.

I click the first link.