When the Garden Grows Quiet and Love Blooms Again

Sometimes the garden teaches us what words can’t — about loss, love, and the quiet way life continues to bloom.

This week, life reminded me how fragile it really is. I lost a dear friend, and the days since have felt heavy, quiet, almost unreal.

Out in the flower field, most of the rows are empty now. My husband cleared them recently, preparing the ground for rest and renewal. Yet even in that emptiness, a few blooms remain — a single row of cosmos still smiling in the sunlight, the chrysanthemums holding steady, and one lone lily, perfectly in bloom. Somehow, their quiet persistence feels like a small message from the world: even when much is gone, life goes on.

Before she passed, my friend gifted me a hydrangea and a few beautiful irises. The hydrangea now rests in the spot where I love to sit — up near the flower field, right in the middle of all the others. It feels like the perfect place for her gift. The iris is planted next to the stand, a place where I would so often see her. When they bloom in the spring, I know they’ll carry her memory — her kindness and her gentle spirit. Those flowers will be a living tribute, a reminder that love takes root and keeps growing.

Grief is like walking through a wintered garden — mostly bare, heavy, and silent. But the few blossoms that remain, the ones that bloom in their own quiet time, remind me that growth, love, and beauty always find their way back.

Sometimes, where we choose to plant something becomes its own kind of memory. The hydrangea by my favorite seat, surrounded by the field, will feel like she’s still keeping me company — reminding me that love, once planted, never truly fades.