The Second Spring

This is my second spring without her.

Last year, everything still felt sharp. The grief was loud then. Heavy. Everywhere.

This year feels different.

Not easier, at least not for me. Just quieter somehow… and lonelier.

Everything I know about gardening, I learned from my mother.

We used to wander the nurseries together every spring. Looking at plants we definitely did not need. Debating colour palettes. Picking out “just one more thing.” Talking about what survived the winter and what needed replacing.

And somehow, over the years, I became the one completely obsessed with it.

The one moving plants around three times before deciding where they belong. The one filling every empty corner. The one finding peace with my hands in the dirt.

It grounds me.

I grew up around peonies and climbing roses. Fruit trees. Berry bushes. Gardens that seemed endless when I was little.

My garden could never hold all of it.

I think that’s what I’m noticing in this second spring without her.

I still carry the traditions. The flowers. The rituals. The remembering.

But somewhere along the way, I’ve started leaving my own mark on things too.

This was always the season we would begin planning the garden together. What needed moving. What survived the winter. What hadn’t made it through.

Now it’s mostly just me outside talking to her about all of it.

The lilac tree she planted is blooming beautifully again.

This other morning, I sat outside with my coffee talking to her the way I still do. And the cardinals kept appearing.

First one. Then two.

Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s memory. Or maybe some mornings simply feel different.

Some mornings, the veil between worlds feels very thin.

I found this photo today from our last spring together. She’s standing in the garden pointing toward something that likely needed tending. A completely ordinary moment that somehow feels sacred now.

That’s the strange thing about grief.

You begin to realize love continues showing up in places you once overlooked:in gardens, in rituals, in blooming lilacs, in the conversations you still have long after someone is gone.

And somehow, she still meets me here.

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