My mother’s garden is different every year, she plants new plants in different spots, filling spaces left by last year’s annuals. Placement is on feeling alone, with some reason applied when plants need different levels of sunlight. I enjoy planting, but so does she, so when I ask to help she’ll put me to work weeding, so she can enjoy the planting. I detest weeding.

Today I sat while she worked and picked at the plants in between bricks on our walkway, watching as she planted new plants and pruned older ones. I weeded for ten minutes, until my arms became sore and my fingers couldn’t pluck the small, tough plants with the same strength I started with. Ten minutes and I was done. Some days my mom is weeding for hours, listening to books and wearing holes in the fingertips of her gloves. Today, my ten minutes founded respect in my mom’s hours, and I’ll admire her garden more when the spaces between bricks are picked clean.

My mother got married in her mother’s garden. She inherited her gardening style and her green thumb from her. When I changed my name I kept the nature theme, because I connect both names to the shared love of flora my mother and grandmother gave to me. I want to get married in my mother’s garden, someday. She has plenty of time to plant and perfect that wedding garden. I want to build a wedding garden one day, a place where my kid can celebrate their love. Maybe this is our shared familial duty, our gift to our children and their children after that.