I don’t know how much time passed as I walked through the garden my mom had planted and spent so much time in. I was too engrossed in all that surrounded me. I took in all the exotic looking flowers each one seemly more magnificent than the other.

There were flowers that were long and fluted that boasted impossibly bright fuchsia and some that were almost neon yellow blossoms. Another patch of clustered flora that crept across the ground with leaves as red as blood and flower petals so purple they almost looked black. And a small forest of stalks that almost towered over my head with dripping fronds of vibrant orange.

The pathways along the evergreen tree line were full with vibrant lush bushes. Some boasting colorful blossoms of varying shades. Others with no flowers at all, but still added to the vigorous color pallet of the garden with oval shaped leaves and bright pink tips.

Then there was the pond. It was the focal point of the small acreage. It wasn’t much larger than about three or so kiddy pools set side by side, but the landscaping around it made it a delight for the eyes.

Much of the pond was surrounded with dark gray raged stones ranging from the size of my fist to three times the size of my head. Each situated in a seemly natural way that was also quite pleasing to look at. Among the stones was scattered greenery with the occasional stalks of bright yellow or soft lavender flowers that looked a lot like lilies.

The water itself was liquid black, but if you looked closely enough, a splash of tangerine or crimson could be seen moving beneath the dark waters. I couldn’t get a good look at them, but they must have been fish.

The crowning achievement of the whole affair was the low stone bridge that crossed water. The structure arching across the center like a natural extension of the surrounding landscape, bringing the two sides together. A flowing green ivy covered the smooth stone that rose up high enough on the sides to become a railing, while shots of pure white flowers the size of a nickels dotted the patches of greenery.

I strolled to the bridge and stood in the center of it for a long time taking it all in, and completely able to see my mother here building this perfect getaway. It reminded me so much of the haven she had created behind our home in New York City.

Certainly, the plants and layout were different, but the feel of it was the same. It was obviously a place of leisure and relaxation with an emphasis on creating a natural setting that not only soothed, but delighted the senses. Even here on the open area of the bridge a gentle breeze tickling the end of my nose, I could smell the fragrant musks of the plant life around me.

It brought back memories of my mom in our backyard with her hands covered in black potting soil that she mixed with the natural soil in our yard. She said it made the plants more healthy by adding in the nutrient rich earth.

There was one memory in particular that stood out to me. I must have been around eight or nine. I was digging in the dirt beside her. My hole much bigger than it needed to be, but my mom let me keep going. When I finally decided I was done, I looked up at her with a big grin.

She smiled back, and then handed me one of the pale blue flowers she had let me pick out from the nursery we’d visited that afternoon. I grabbed for it, but she slowed me down.

“Gently, Michael. They are fragile,” she said carefully squeezed it out of its black portable tray.

She handed the flower to me. I took it from her being careful like she said. Then I started to pinch the square bottom to break up the roots just like she’d shown me on the other plants.

While I did that, she shoveled in some of the regular dirt into my gigantic hole to make it smaller, and then placed a sizable amount of the dark potting soil on top. She made an indent in the black soil and gestured to me.

“Put it in there in the hole I made.”

I followed her instructions, then she held the plant firmly while I shoveled the loose dirt around the exposed roots. After that I reached for the watering can. This was my favorite part. I tipped the long spout down so the water flowed out to soak the plant and the soil around it.

“Okay, that’s enough,” my mom said with a slight edge to her voice, telling me I must have been soaking the flower a little too much.

I pulled the can back and admired the work we had done. There was now a long row of purple flowers with one baby blue at the very end. Mom had called them adders, or something like that. My chest puffed out in pride at my plant standing out amongst the others.

My mom laid a hand on my shoulder. “Well done, Michael. I’ll make a gardener out of you yet.”

I chuckled at the memory. I remembered thinking that I really didn’t want to be a gardener, I just liked the idea of planting my very own flower and having it different from the others. But I was certain now my mom knew that at the time. I think she just liked sharing something with me that she loved.

She had done that with all of us kids at one point or another––shared her love of gardening. That certainty hadn’t been the only vegetation I had planted under my mom’s supervision, but it was the first one I remembered.

Most of the time though, we simply enjoyed the fruits of her joyous labour whether it be something that actually bore fruit or vegetables, or simply aesthetic for the eyes to enjoy during our family time.

Another memory came to me. I was in my teens and I was enjoying my newest love during a family cook out. I could still remember the feel of a soft breeze that caressed my cheek as I strummed the guitar.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The notes were picked up in the wind and scattered across the fenced in backyard that helped muffle out the city sounds ever present just beyond our small haven. The spicy tang of barbecue wafting in my senses. And dad hummed along to the tune I played as he flipped slabs of meat on the smoking grill.

“Don’t step in your mother’s flowers!” I heard him bellow out unexpectedly.

It didn’t even jolt me out of my concentration. I had long gotten used to dad’s sudden exclamations long ago. First with Eric and me, and then when Emmaline had come along. She seemed to illicit far more of his gruff warnings than Eric and I ever did, though I might have had been a bit prejudice about that. I considered Em the reigning troublemaker of the family, though I’d heard some claim that about me too.

I continued to play my song, even when I heard mom add in to the fray. “Emmaline, you’re stomping all over the petunias. Take that ball over to the back of the fence, please.”

“No one wants to play with me,” I heard my sister’s far too familiar whine.

“That’s not an excuse to trample all over my flowers, young lady.”

“Michael, why don’t you go play with your sister,” my dad weighed in.

That was enough to make me to stop playing and look up from my guitar. Dad stood across from me on the wide open deck with the silver tongs in mid air like he might use them as a weapon if pushed to it. While mom sat at the umbrella covered table nearby. Her legs propped on one of the empty cushioned chairs with a glass of wine in one hand and a kindle nestled in her lap.

“I’m sixteen, dad. Why do I want to play with a baby?”

“I’m not a baby!” my sister wailed from below us, standing half in and half out of the bed of the brightly colored petunias mom had planted along the cobblestone walkway circling the oak stained porch.

I turned my stony gaze to my little sister as she stood there with legs apart, hands on her hips, and a glare full of indignation that only an angry five year old could manage.

“Babies cry and you seem to do an awful lot of that, soooo…” I trailed off as I turned my attention back to the instrument in my hands.

That caused a high pitched cry to pierce the afternoon air that rivaled the sound of emergency vehicle sirens off in the distance.

“Michael, be nice to your sister,” Mom scolded.

Dad said nothing, but I could feel the heat of his gaze on me. I kept playing, but I could feel my whole body tensing and flush. I wasn’t going to win this battle, and I knew it.

“I got it,” I heard the baritone of my brother respond and the back door slam.

I looked up at my newly turned legal age brother as he sported a plate of freshly cut vegetables in one hand and an open bottle of Sam Adams in the other. I pointedly ignored the beer bottle as a wave of jealousy crept up through me. Once again, I turned my attention back to the guitar.

Moments later, I felt the presence of my brother move past me as he descended the short flight of stairs and went down to meet our sister.

“Yay!” I heard her exclaim.

From the corner of my eye I saw her jump up and down as my brother deftly scooped the ball from a patch of flowers and tossed it far into the backyard. There was a nice large section of grass surrounded by mom’s ever present gardens of flowers, small trees, and even a raised vegetable bed across the back. In the patch of open lawn, several toys lay scattered, including Emmaline’s abandoned tricycle. A white basket hung off the front, and the red ball landed perfectly, balancing on top of the basket and square between the hot pink handle bars.

“Show off,” I muttered as I watched my brother cooly take a sip of his beer.

I could still feel the heated gaze of my dad. It made my skin prickle and the hair on the back of my neck raise until I reluctantly set my guitar up against the guardrail of the porch, stood up, and went down to join my siblings.

I tromped through the grass until I was within throwing distance, but Emmaline hogged the ball and refused to send it my way. Eventually, Eric sent it sailing to me. I fumbled it. Emmaline snickered as I chased it, but I finally managed to gab a hold of the slicked surfaced ball and threw it her way.

I might have put a little more energy behind my throw than I should have. So it didn’t completely surprise me when it whacked my sister on the side of her head.

Cue the wailing and screaming, and a full week of washing all the dishes by hand with help from no one, and most certainly not from the perfectly operating state of the art dishwasher in our kitchen.

I shook my head at the memory. Yeah, I could be a real dick sometimes, especially toward my sister during her more annoying younger years. To be fair though, she gave it as good as she got it. And I distinctly remember going to bed that night and finding a bunch of her nasty dirty socks under my pillow.

My throat closed shut and I felt strong emotions twisting in my chest. My god, I missed them. The weight of the loss feeling like it was crushing me from the inside out.

“Mom, how am I supposed to do this? I miss you guys so much.”

I stumbled across the bridge and sat on one of the curved stone benches around the table. I collapsed on the hard stone and just sat there. My chest full and my mind too tired to think another thought.

I have no idea how long I remained there in a daze. I wasn’t even aware of what was really going on around me. Except for the breeze. I heard it’s soft breathing sound. The ebb and flow of it it. Until it seemed to be my own breath. The wind and I one and the same.

A flash of red caught my attention. It came towards me, and then landed on the other side of the table I sat at. It was a bird that reminded me of a cardinal, except the head was more elongated and it was the size of a finch.

It stood there on the dark gray stone and looked at me, turning its head from side to side as if I was an enigma it needed to solve. It then opened its mouth and a high pitched chirping sounded. It sung to me for a few moments, and then as suddenly as it appeared, it flew away.

It was enough to break me out of my funk. I shook my head and stood up. My body sore from sitting on the hard stone for so long. I must have been here for awhile. I remembered that I needed to get ready to go. The Admiral might even be looking to be leaving now. If he had to come looking for me, I knew he wouldn’t be happy.

I made for the large evergreen and the hidden passageway in and out of the garden. As I walked, I realized things didn’t feel quite so heavy as they had when I first entered the garden. I was even surprised that the anger I had been harboring for weeks was now gone. There wasn’t even a hint of it. What a strange and wonderful thing.

Just before I stepped out of the garden I turned and took one more last long look. The Emperor was right. I was going to look forward to coming back here. It was the perfect place to relax and recharge. I also couldn’t deny the strong feeling of home I felt when here, and maybe that was because of my connection to my mom in this place.

Maybe I couldn’t be with my family, but here I strangely felt close to them. Like maybe they’d just stumble into the garden any moment for a stroll or come for a chat and to catch me up on what they’d been up to while I was away.

It was a mixture of pain and happiness to be here, and I realized it was okay to feel both. That maybe I needed to do that––at least for awhile. And I couldn’t deny the bounce in my step or the wide grin on my face as I exited my mother’s garden.