Geraldine Connolly

When we moved away from our East Coast house what I missed most were not the French doors and stone patio, not the sunroom or porcelain kitchen tiles but a gathering of holly bushes in the back yard and the two front yard dogwoods that I loved to water, prune and tend. Leaving our Montana house was the same. I treasure all those hours spent staring at the aspens and mountain ash, and I remember the iris bulbs I stuck in the dirt that transformed into purple beauties each spring. I remember picking the best raspberries I’ve ever tasted from those stalks I’d planted behind the garage under the stairs where the deer couldn’t get at them. That flower garden above the rock wall is imprinted in my memory, its echinacea and poppies and tulips. I can still feel the petals and stalks beneath my fingers, the mud and seeds, tiny sticks and leaf litter. That one can mourn the loss of plants and flowers and trees is a truth. And now as we are about to leave the Sonoran Desert, I already miss the vibrant palo verde, the patient saguaro, the sturdy mesquite trees that have been my companions. For their constant change and their instinct for renewal, for my grief, for their presence, I am grateful.