Grandma’s Garden

By Julian Denney

I’ve only visited my grandma once a year at best—almost 17 years of week-long summer trips over the mountains in Pocatello. I never thought about it much until we had to visit twice: once for fun and again for a funeral.

I was 16 when my grandpa died. It was odd sorting through the military garb and Native American memorabilia left to the family, sitting on the dusty blue carpet surrounded by boxes and boxes of “junk.” While the office had always been cramped, it no longer felt homey; I no longer felt the warmth of sleeping on a cot with a quilt, just the cold blue light struggling to brighten the room. It was sitting on that scratchy, aged floor that I realized something was different.

It was on our summer visit following the funeral that I knew it wasn’t something reversible. The first thing that drew my eye was the flower garden. A dilapidated truck sat a few meters off, now covered in rust and weeds. My old swing was faded by the sun, the red now a dull pink. The yard was overgrown—save for the tread marks where my grandma had begun to park her car, no longer able to walk from the garage to the front door. The garden where I’d once dug up worms from neat rows of flowers now had Canada thistles as tall as I was, having finally encroached where my grandpa had been warding them off. 

It was off-putting to me. As a kid, I never expected my grandparents to age beyond their golden years; as a teen, I thought I’d brag about my grandma being 90 forever. I never processed that health truly would catch up, that my grandma would ever really die—nobody does until it happens. Even when I noticed her voice was frailer or that she had a walker, I simply thought of them as adjustments to keep her comfortable, not signs. I was in the first stage of grief before I even knew it—denial.

I can’t say it was unexpected when I got the call that she was in hospice. She’d been in and out of the hospital recently, cancer treatments and checkups becoming a routine. 

In a way, I think I’m still in denial—I still don’t believe that when I go back to Idaho, she won’t be there. I don’t believe I won’t see her when we go to the house. She has to still be there on her recliner, feeding stories about when she was young and asking if we want candy behind my mom's back. I should be able to open the door to the scent of newly baked cookies and dated flower perfume, but I can’t.

I know she won’t be at my graduation, and I know the dust is gathering on her recliner. The little blue office is still empty, the tire tracks will fade in the yard, and the weeds in the garden will continue to burgeon.