Colorful Nostalgia

My strawberries are heart-shaped rubies in a sea of emerald waves. My peonies are violet clouds pultruding from the soil. My seeds are hopeful wishes yet to come true. My garden is a secret temple, remote as a firefly in a sea of crickets.

"Nana Diana! When will my apple tree grow?"

"The bark will grow thicker, the less that you bicker." She says with a smile.

My raspberry bushes are a lush forest, my potatoes are an undiffused minefield, my daisies are quiet rays of sun.

"Nana Diana! When will my pumpkin grow?"

"The color will grow brighter, if at night you hold it tighter." She says with a wink.

My mint leaves are sweet chocolate cake. My peaches fill the air with a tangy aroma. My willow dances, lackadaisical in the August breeze.

"Nana Diana! When will my lettuce grow?"

"The seeds will continue to sprout, the less that you doubt." She says with a nod.

My plums are polished purple stones, my pond is a round dark mirror, my gazebo is a floating fortress in the grass.

"Nana Diana! When will my apricots grow?"

"The fruit will grow sweeter, if you water by the meter." She says with a grin.

My roses are velvet petals in a bed of nectar, my pineapples are kings with tall spikey crowns, my peppers form a rainbow of color through my garden.

"Nana Diana! When will my lemon trees grow?"

"The juice will become sour, if you visit by the hour." She says with a giggle.

Each night my Nana strolls through my garden, observing the progress I have made since March. I perch on the large rock above my pond and watch her as the sun sets over the front gate. She steps lightly on the soil; as if she doesn't wish to disrupt it's nurturing, carefully and slowly, as she continues on. She stays silent through this hour, as if she is speaking to the plants, giving them advice, wishing them well. As I watch with wonder, I think that I want to be like her someday, helping my own grand daughter with her garden.

Before we return inside for dinner; she simply sits in the gazebo and watches frogs croak back and forth on the lily pads floating in the pond. It is nearly impossible to imagine what she is thinking, but I know it must be good by the way she eventually turns to me with her wrinkly hand held out, and says, "Lets go Emmie, tomorrow is a new day."

My cherries are rouge pebbles on hanging ropes, my tulips are pastel curtains hiding golden treasure. My garden is a festival, full of love and color.

"Nana Diana! When will my corn grow?"

"The corn will grow higher, the more that you desire." She says with a wink.