Grief Tomatoes

 It's the deadliest year since 1918, and the toll continues to rise. It's difficult, surrounded by death, not to think about the dead. 

Summer 2019 hit us blow by blow. Neighbor and neighbor, grandmother then grandmother, unborn nephew rounding out the season. 

We hardly had time to recalibrate before the next assault to normalcy. 

The first two deaths were heralded by the celebration of growing things. That's what I remember most. In our little cottage at the top of the cliff, we were surrounded by neighbors who watched my husband's garden grow. 

Miss Jo would text me pictures of our sunflowers from her front window; she reported to me nearly every day with their outrageous height you could see from the end of the block. 10 inch heads of pure sunshine on 12 foot stalks. We sat on our driveway harvesting their seeds as we watched the ambulance at their home for the 3rd time that week. We stayed sitting until the paramedics came out, and we asked about her status when they did. Her oxygen levels were failing. It wouldn't be long. 

Robert next door was such a private man. He and his wife slid in and out of their life on Gunter as deer in the morning. They remained in utter stealth until the tomato garden bloomed beside their front entryway that second summer. Robert told us of the gardens he would plant in his youth. He began to stay longer and longer on his way in and out, telling us more about his youth, travels, family, and, when we would ask, his health. He had seemed to be gaining strength until his fall. It was as though the breaking of bone unleashed all the cancer cells back into his body. Rather than ambulances, it was the parade of visiting family's cars who signaled us to the end. 

We kept gardening. 

We gardened as the family came and went, saying their goodbyes to our friend, their uncle/father/cousin/brother. We gardened and didn't know what to say to them, if anything. It was them who talked to us, though. Each family, without fail, wanted to tell us what a wonderful garden we had. They talked about what a wonderful garden Robert used to have. They commented on what a crop of tomatoes we had in store. Robert loved tomatoes. 

There is a comfort in growing things, a balm for grief I can't explain. I have seen the hope a sunflower brings a dying woman. I have seen peace replace sorrow in the faces of bereaved as they let the vines of a tomato plant transport them back in time. 

Growing things bring color and expectation. Growing things bring distraction and demand attention. Growing things remind us that the future brings fruit we can only dream toward right now. 

We brought Miss Jo's widower sunflowers, not knowing what else to do. We brought Robert's widow our lily and a bag of our first harvest. She wrapped herself around me and cried. 

Sometimes, when you don't know how to grieve with someone, all you can do is share what you know of their joy and hope it plants a seed.