My Garden

Joe Shore

In most people’s childhood there were moments of love and moments of pain. We live with the fact that there was a snake in the garden, but in time, we see that it was beautiful nevertheless.

Though unable to forget them, the bad times can never compete with the wonder and beauty of the garden, with flowers that never got cut, with baby chickens and old dogs named Ginger, with the fresh, clean smell of the air after a thunderstorm,

with grapes and berries, pecans and pear trees, with sun-ripened watermelons, and corn picked with our own hands,

with homemade bread and canned preserves, with quilting bees and a neighborhood awash in friendliness, with trips to the river—for the river was always around us-- and returns to the garden, 

with the best days of family. The garden is my memory. I will hold to that. I wish I could take my garden and give it to others. But to each has been given his own. Not everyone’s garden looks the same, and in some the snake was more present than in others. But if you will look now, there is something of a garden to remember and hold to.

When I leave this world I expect to visit the garden once again.  I know grandmother and grandpa are waiting there for me. To them it will seem as if they only just arrived, or as if they never left.

The tool shed door will still need fixing and the well water will still satisfy. Old Ginger will still follow grandpa’s every step and an old three legged cat, Smokey, will still climb trees.

  The mimosa tree will still attract the humming birds.

and the clothes dry clean on the line.

And the River will still flow just nearby.

The snake did not win. The garden stays, fixed in my heart with love that was true.