Lilium

Five months after Harry's death, Lily stood in the middle of the back porch dressed in her nightgown and slippers, her greying hair still messy from sleep. Grief gnawed at her body. Her once delicate features hollowed and hardened over the past few months. Not that anyone ever told her that. Although, she often caught their glances with their lips pursed and concerned brows furrowed. She knew their thoughts and hated being someone to fret over.    

In the crisp morning air, Lily's slender arms turned gooseflesh. Her old Burmese cat, Jimmy, twisted and looped himself around her ankles. Sauntering over, he slumped down on the porch steps purring in satisfaction.   

Lily's eyes adjusted to the first light of day; her gaze set across the sprawling garden that enveloped the yard. Countless hours Harry spent bent over in the garden like a horseshoe pruning, snipping, hoeing, digging, appreciating and spider dodging. The house and yard stood on a one-acre block in a quiet rural town, the land purchased some 43 years ago at a bargain price. Back then, no house existed, just an empty paddock with grass as high as Lily's waist. A blank canvas of nature awaiting the hopes and dreams of a young couple–isn't that what they say, anyway?    

It wasn't until Harry, a carpenter, and his brothers built the house; that they finally had their home. Lily cursed the day she agreed to such an undertaking; something always remained undone, half-finished, not working, incomplete, or just wrong.    

The wallpaper in the lounge took a whole nine months to hang. How could I possibly have guests over? Harry insisted that paid jobs came first over their own home-building, which was how it was. In time, they laughed about how the bedroom doors had no handles for years and how the kitchen cupboards were much worse off–they had no doors at all!    

Lily hadn't ventured into Harry's garden since he died. The gravel path beneath her crunched like dry cereal. Why was she wandering in Harry's garden now? Why today of all days?   

Along the path, the flowers, trees and shrubs missed their caretaker; they grieved in protest, invading space and seizing control like countries at war. The large purple Hydrangeas bullied and choked the delicate Forget-me-nots. Clusters of Pigweeds with their thin waxy leaf fingers strangled the helpless Freesias. The flat snowflake shape of Shepherd's Purses carpeted the base of the pink and yellow Carnations. Once a lingering sugary scent, they reduced the Carnations aroma to a hint of cheap, watered-down perfume. Deep purple and yellow pansies competed for space with a dense mass of Chickweed. Tall enough to catch a morning breeze, giant Sunflowers lay slumped, defeated and broken. Empty plum trees littered the earth with rotting fruit, while a jungle of weeds covered entire garden patches in large pockets so dense the sun could no longer peek through. Dark, damp leaves covered the earth in layers, displaying the ugly, messy scatter of autumn leftovers. Where was the hum of the bees? Where is the dancing butterfly? Unable to survive, life drained from the garden.   

Lily sat at the park bench opposite the water fountain–the yard's centrepiece. Harry's garden, his pride and joy almost unrecognizable. Look what had come of it. How ashamed he would be. Jimmy sidled up beside Lily and sat on the path, his tail swished in contentment.    

A slither of orange in the overgrowth caught Lily's eye. She knelt on the path and pulled the brush away. There, sticking out of the earth, Lily picked up a small rectangular card, displaying the plant's name and care instructions. She pulled it out of the soil and read the flower's name, Lilium amabile (loveable lily). A Lily? My namesake. Of course, Harry would have Lillies in the garden.   

Another card poked out of the dirt to her right, Lilium parvum (alpine lily). Dusting off her knees, Lily wandered around the garden edge and saw more cards hidden under leaf debris: Lilium wigginsii. (leopard lily), Lilium occidentale (western lily), Lilium philadelphicum (wood lily). Over and over, Lily found her namesake.   

She hitched up her nightgown and walked carefully into the garden beds, pulling back weeds and dark green leaves to find more cards. She moved her delicate fingers over the weeds and pulled them out one by one. Throwing them into a pile on the path behind her, she revealed the beautiful patch of Lillies. Deprived of sun and water for months, they lay dying.  

Lily knelt on the damp soil, unfazed by the earth muddying her nightgown. She worked feverishly, clearing weeds and pulling away dead flowers, soggy bark and decaying leaves. One by one, she tended to the plants, saving the colour of life from the darkness that had swallowed it.  

Lily's head bobbed out from the top of the lilac bush; her blackened hand wiped her damp forehead. The sun now high in the sky, Lily craned her neck to its warmth. The daylight seemed brighter, the sky bluer. Her hands felt the earth, the same earth Harry poured over. The pressure held in her chest for months eased like a deflating balloon. The mild afternoon breeze caught her hair and danced it away from her face.   

She strode back inside and reappeared in a bright red sunhat, a long-sleeved shirt, a pair of long pants and old shoes ready for the dirt. The wheelbarrow, her new companion, soon filled with a collection of tools, sheers, a hand trowel and a shovel. Lily's old slender hands went back to work. She remained in the garden until dark, that night and every night that followed for weeks.      

One morning, Lily meandered the gravel path in her favourite red hat, assessing the overnight activity. Her hands loose behind her back; she occasionally stopped to pull a sprouting weed from a bed of bright colour, the fragrant pansies bloomed and buzzed with the work of a dozen bees. Butterflies danced silently about her head as baby birds squawked hungrily high above. She fussed and preened, pruned and clipped.    

A ripe, juicy plum hung low; Lily pulled the fruit and stowed it in her pocket. As she did every morning, she made her way to her most favourite patch in Harry's garden–the patch of orange 'lovable lilies' - and plopped herself down on the path. Here, while nature hummed and the garden thrived once again with life, she paused for a quiet moment.   

She took the fruit out from her pocket and wiped it on the front of her shirt. She savoured the plum in slow bites, wiping dark red juice from her mouth with the back of her hand, her delight measured in loud and shameless slurps.