Jenny enjoyed tending the flowers in her garden so deeply she was certain her flowers shared the feeling. When she was kneeling in the beds, wearing the straw hat that protected her from the sun, she felt a silent communion between them, not mystical but assuredly spiritual. She could almost feel the soft purring, hear the leach of collective sighs seeping upward through the soil as she poured from the watering can.

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     She breathed deeply as she sat back on her heels, tucking a glistening wisp of white hair back over her ear. She was nearing her 80s, but still strong and alert, her wiry frame and creased face coarsened by this high desert environment. She had lived in southern Colorado all her life, raised a daughter and buried two husbands here. Her cabin clung to the forested mountainside on the piedmont outside Fort Carson. The small garden lay against the side of the cabin. It held wildflowers and small trees and fragrant shrubs she carefully transplanted from the meadows and mountain trails. Bringing them all together where she could tend them gave her maternal comfort. A low stone wall with a small gate offered protection.

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     She spoke to them tenderly, recalling Julie when she was a child, filled with wonder as her mother unfolded the world before her. “There, my little ones,” she whispered as she rose, “that should feed your thirst until tomorrow.” She took the can and walked back to the cabin, setting it down beside the hand pump. It was mid-April, and the early blooms were opening. She poured the rest of her morning tea and sat at the kitchen table. She opened her journal to the last entry. She kept track of her daily activities—her wanderings in the mountain forest, the birds and animals she saw, and the status of the growing season. “Covert in April, candid in May,” she wrote, following Dickenson.

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     As she made a notation about the grateful postures of her bee plants upon having their thirst quenched, she thought about Julie’s scoffing at her mother’s personification of her flowers. She no longer explores, Jenny grieved silently. She’s lost her wonder. Perhaps tomorrow, when she visits. . . .

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     Julie, almost 40 now, lived in Denver, 90 miles north, and visited once or twice a month. Her mother was again in her garden the following late morning when Julie arrived. “Your flowers are doing well, Mother,” she said. Jenny looked up from her attention to a fresh planting of columbine. “They are particularly happy today, yes,” she said. She rose, taking off her gardening gloves, hugging her daughter. “Let’s go have some tea and biscuits.” She took Julie’s arm to steady herself as they walked into the cabin.

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     “Mom,” Julie said as they sat at the table with a pot of tea and some shortbread, “I really worry about your fantasy that plants are mindful of you,” she said. “I hope you don’t communicate this to your friends!”

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     “So,” her mother asked, wryly, “is it me or my reputation that concerns you?”

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     Julie laughed, “Both, I suppose!” She took a sip from her cup. “No, really, Mother, I worry you might take this too seriously.” She frowned, reaching to touch her mother’s hand. “I guess I just want you to keep being my mom and not somebody else slipping into some other place.” She brushed away a tear.

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     Jennie covered Julie’s hand with her own. “Don’t worry, baby,” she said, “I’m grounded here.” She raised an eyebrow. “And I don’t have dementia, dear.” Later, in bed, she pinched her nose between her fingers, frowning. I really don’t, do I? she thought.

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     They spent the following day hiking and reminiscing. They laughed and shared the happier recollections of childhood, of backpacking and skiing, exploring. Jenny’s second husband—Julie’s father—had enjoyed sharing these moments until he shipped out to Afghanistan and died there when Julie was a senior. After that, Jenny withdrew into her gardening world and Julie graduated and went away to college and moved to Denver. Mother and daughter remained close, but their interests grew apart and Julie settled into the prosaic life of corporate business, no longer beguiled by the mountains.

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     A tufted-eared squirrel scampered across their path while walking back. “Don’t you miss this, Julie?” Jenny asked. Julie hesitated and smiled at her mom, reaching for her hand.

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     “A little,” she said.

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     Jenny drew up and turned to her daughter. “You’ve really sort of lost your adventurous spirit, dear,” she lamented. “It’s not my conversations with flowers that concern you, is it?” She gave Julie a mock scowl. “It’s the flowers themselves.” She touched Julie’s cheek, brushing back her hair. “It’s nature you’ve given up on.”

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     Julie held her mother’s hand against her cheek. “When Dad died,” she said softly, “in that place so foreign to all of us, so far from the Rockies he loved…” her voice trailed to a whisper. “It was so unfair!” she blinked away tears.

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     “You blame the mountain for letting him go?” Jenny’s voice faltered.

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     “No, Mom,” Julie squeezed her eyes shut. “But the mountain changed.” She looked around at the pinyons and junipers, at the clumps of Chamisa and the mountain mahogany. Tears coursed down her cheeks. “This didn’t belong to me anymore.”  They held each other and wept.

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     After breakfast the next morning, Julie packed to drive back to Denver, holding her mom close. “I’m happy for you that you have your garden, Mom.” Jenny sighed, nodding. She waved as Julie drove off.

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     Then she fetched her hat, gloves, and watering can and went back into her garden. She was still for a moment, looking around her. She tested the ground with her fingers and sprinkled water around the drier spots, spending the morning gently pulling invasive weeds, loosening the soil in places, and mounding it around the recent plantings. It was arduous and sweaty and pleasantly exhausting. She had put thoughts of mental decline out of her head, but Julie’s comments hounded her deep inside.

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     She finally sat back, wiping her brow, and looked out over the plantings. The garden was yawning, arising from slumber, preparing to root and bud and leaf and flower its way into Jenny’s landscape for a new season.

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     The chokecherry trees hugging the east garden wall had just broken bud, their tiny white blossoms lighting up the dark branches. Inside the wall a gooseberry was prying open its pale yellow-green flowers, and the hyacinth bean had reached its tendrilled fingers up to grasp the garden wall and begin its seasonal climb. The garden seemed absorbed in rebirthing itself, stretching and nodding ever so subtly in its endeavor.

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     Jenny paused at the gate and looked back. The faintest vibration softened the air, curling its way through her, leaving its embrace. Her pulse quickened, and she entered the cabin for a cup of tea.