My grandmother had a tradition; every birthday, she would plant a new rose bush in her garden. It was her way of marking the passage of time, a living timeline of her years. When she passed away three years ago, it felt like that beautiful timeline had come to an abrupt end. The thought of visiting her house without her presence overwhelmed me with sadness, so I stayed away, leaving the garden to its own devices.
On the anniversary of her passing, I mustered the courage to return. I braced myself for overgrown weeds and the desolation of neglect, imagining her once vibrant garden in ruins. However, as I approached the old gate, my apprehension gave way to astonishment. The garden was not just alive; it was thriving. The grass was neatly trimmed, and there were several new rose bushes freshly planted that I had never seen before. Confusion and curiosity washed over me—no one in my family had tended to the garden since her death.
Drawn irresistibly forward, I walked through the garden, each step reigniting memories of days spent by my grandmother’s side, learning about each plant’s needs and stories. My gaze eventually landed on her favorite spot, where a particularly beautiful rose bush that she had adored for its vibrant blooms stood. It was flourishing, just as it always had under her careful hands, and right beneath it, I noticed something unusual—a glass bottle with a piece of paper inside.
With a trembling hand, I picked up the bottle and carefully extracted the note. Unfolding it, I began to read, “To whoever finds this, know that my roses were my heart’s joy. I’ve asked a dear friend to continue my tradition should I be unable to do so myself. Every year, on my birthday, please plant a new bush to keep the garden and my spirit alive. Love, Granny.”
Tears filled my eyes as I read her familiar handwriting. I looked around, truly seeing the garden for the first time that day. Each new bush was a whisper of her love, a testament to her foresight in preserving this piece of her essence. Curious to learn more, I reached out to her friends and discovered that she had made arrangements with a local gardener, an old friend from her gardening club, to care for the garden if anything ever happened to her.
Motivated by the discovery and the living legacy of my grandmother’s love, I decided to take up her tradition myself. Year after year, I continued to plant a new rose bush on her birthday, keeping the promise made in the note. The garden became a sanctuary not just for me but for all who remembered and loved her.
Three years after her death, as I planted the third new bush since taking over her tradition, I realized that through these roses, my grandmother had achieved a sort of immortality. In the blooms of each new bush, her spirit flourished, reminding everyone of her enduring presence and love.
