"It's cool enough to weed the garden this morning," I remark
to Norman. With a sigh, he looks at me over the remains
of the big Sunday breakfast that still clutters the table.
"Okay. I'll get the boys to help. I hope they don't pull too
many beans!" he says with a grin.

An hour later we are all in the garden, toes and feet bare
and dirty. Eli squeals as he squishes the moist, rich soil
between his toes. Norman grins, sweat running off his face.
Evan bends over, digging with a tool for the stubborn root
of a dandelion; he knows he must dig down to get all the root,
or repeat the job when it grows again.

Norman stands and wipes his brow, calling "Ethan, when
you're done, help me around the tomatoes." Shocked, we
look at each other, faces blank but for wide-open eyes.
Evan looks up, and then down again, working at his root.
Even after almost four years, the memories of our
copper-headed child run deep and strong, flavoring our
day with images of times forgotten. I put down the hoe and
walk into the house for the pitcher of lemonade I'd made
before starting this family ritual.

Ethan loved the garden. He loved the smell of it.
He loved the ritual of planting the tiny seeds and
watching with delight as new plants sprang up, seemingly
random, then forming row upon row of food he could pick
and eat. He watered the garden every morning, my diligent son.
As soon as breakfast was done he'd put his head up, eyes
gleaming with anticipation, dimple sparkling with glee, and
say "wawer time!" in a voice bigger than he was. We would turn
the hose on just a trickle, and he would squat beside each
plant, giving it a drink of life-bringing water. "Don't get
water on the flowers!" I would shout, raising my voice to
be heard across the yard. Annoyed, I'd walk out as he stood up
and sprayed the hose over the flowers just setting on the
tomatoes. "Whaa?" he would say, as his eyes focused on me in the
bright morning sun, brow furrowed with the concentration that
only an almost-three-year-old can muster.

My mind skips to another patch of ground, wet and soggy
with rain. I see the grass covered with clumps of wet mud
where the diggers had laid the soil they would soon
pour down upon my son in his pink casket. Visions of his father,
uncles, and grampa slowly removing him from that ugly
black car to place him ever so gently on the ground, so as
not to disturb him or the toys and blanket he was taking with
him. I sang to him then, my son who had died. I sang words
of my own making to "Brahms Lullaby" in an awful tear-filled
voice, cracking and weeping. I sang, hoping somhow he would
hear me singing "his" song one last time.

Laughter from the garden brings me back to the here and now,
to Evan and Eliott and Eli, pulling weeds and plants alike,
earnest at their task. In a few minutes they will tire of the
task, and begin squishing dirt clumps between their fingers,
burying their toes and fingers in the rich scented earth,
waiting for the lemonade they know I will bring. I look across
at Norman: tall, huge arms bare to the shoulder, dirt under
his nails and on his forehead, looking for all the world like
a farmer in his field. And he is. The field of his garden, both
planted as well as the field of his family. Ethan is here, too,
we both know. He is here, a shadow in our minds, garden hose in
his hand, watering the tomato flowers with great care as his feet
squash the young pepper plants.

Our garden is strong, and good and growing, but will never be full.
There will always be the one seed that was sown, never to reach full
growth, never to flower and reach for the sky and bright sun.

I know the memories of his burial will attack me again, pouring
their frightfully intense pain and longing on me. I know I will
vist that place in my head when I least expect it, when something
small, or a chance comment sends me again into the depths of my thoughts.

"Well done boys," I remark, as they march in to wash up
for a snack, carrying the garden in with them. Looking at
their happy faces full of sun and pride at work attempted
and done well, I refocus on what I have, instead of what
I have not . . . until the next time.

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