Memorial Garden

I am out running errands and realize I am around the corner from the memorial garden where our friend’s ashes were scattered the day before. We had to leave before the committal of Barbara’s ashes, so this morning I walk into the garden alone, without the hundreds of people in attendance twenty-four hours ago.

The memorial garden is thirty years old. We attended the first memorial service her, and I notice the garden has been reshaped by gifts of trees and ornaments in remembrance of beloved members of the church community. The garden is tidy. Someone replenished the mulch, trimmed wayward limbs and picked up all the twigs from recent winds. The garden beds encircling an oblong lawn boast a few daffodils and a stand of oxalis, Irish green against the red-brown mulch, but mostly the beauty of the garden is in the flowering trees and bushes that on this March morning show no sign of blossom or bud.

Several benches scattered around the garden invite me to sit a while. Two white marble ones rest in front of old azaleas, and a gray, concrete bench peeks out from under magnolia branches shaped to sheltering a visitor. A wrought iron seat to the right of the garden entrance offers a view across the green lawn to the portico between the church and an adjacent building. Confederate jasmine frames the middle of three portico arches and provides shelter to a statue of St. Francis. Against a brick wall, a small fountain splashes water gently into the pool below. The garden quiet is filled with love for church members no longer present. Every aspect is subtle but intentionally comforting.

So I am shocked to see a pile of gray and white feathers in the middle of the lawn. Something died here recently, probably a mockingbird, although the large number of feathers is surprising. I stop dead as my eyes take in the scene. I am struck by the irony of visible death in the midst of this quiet memorial. Here I come to honor the life of a friend from an early stage my life, to sit in silent remembrance and gratitude, and I am confronted by the presence of death. And yet, I quickly sense how natural it all is. Even though part of me is uncomfortable, another part says, “See, this is life. You cannot escape it. All you can do is honor and love life and those you know. Death is a reality.”

I take a deep breath and move to one of the white marble benches. From here I can see the steeple beyond an oak tree that will shade the garden in just a few weeks. Today her branches are bare so I can watch the clouds and sky beyond.
A noise in the large azalea just to my left startles me. Something alive is moving. I turn to see a hawk fly out from under the bush and up into the oak’s barren branches. His talons clasp the remains of a small body. Tightly gripping his prey, he stands triumphantly on the branch. He shakes his head and waits as though he controls the world. I watch.

Struck by the randomness of my presence here at just this moment, I think of my dad’s 88th birthday today and of Barbara and of my own short life. This is yet another spotlight moment, one of those times when everything seems crisper and bright, when I sense the movement of life through and around me, when I know I am not alone. As the hawk flies off, I offer a prayer of peace and love for all those who come to mind. I breathe deeply and take in the beauty of just before spring. I pay tribute to those who came before me, those I have known and those who will follow my time here. And then I stroll out the garden path and back to my errands.