My grandmother had a garden. Often times I prompt myself to remember how it looked in the years of its prime; rows of delicate roses, sweet peas popping up from the soft earth, and even a pear tree bowing over the small church built in the back. I remember how selfishly reluctant I was to sit down on her lap next to my grandfather in the midst of the roses so that a picture could be taken, but I was convinced it was the same for my grandma since I rarely ever saw a true smile bursting through a photo that belonged to her.
Years went by, she had a stroke; all measures taken to secure her life yet she vanished like a glimmer into the twilight.
As I walked through her garden the memories eagerly rushed from the depths of my mind, as if my body and soul just couldn’t wait to relive what once was. I slowly ventured out back where there stood her cherry tree in all its youthful pride taking no shame in presenting the blood ruby jewels, knowing I would collect them as my prize. Swinging up into its branches, I gathered as many as I could physically eat and carry in a plastic bag. The taste was of love and victory, because even though she was gone to take care of the beloved place she called home, here was everything left for us to reminisce and enjoy forevermore.