I think of you when the violets bloom. The lovely clumps you carefully dug and shared from the piece of ground you worshiped and worked with faith.Those reliable purple bonnets with an earthy, powdery scent, hopeful without reason.
I think of the you whose God visited only when your finger nails were stuffed with His earth. The you whose dedicated hands and heart couldn't help but work the ground. The you who spread the fertilizer as you propagated neighborly good will. The you whose perfectionist eye knew the difference between a lawn that was mowed and one that was edged. The you who planted bulbs for the gifts they would return year after year. The you who mulched the ground, leaching past ghosts into an earth who could receive your pain. The you who knew God's work could be found in the garden of a large corner lot.
I think of you when the violets bloom because it's the you I want to remember. Not the you who gave up your trowel and your power, leaving me to decide. Not the you who blamed me for the plot I hatched to pry you from our home well past the time you could take care of yourself or the gardens. Not the you who could no longer form a coherent sentence, nor the you who tried to eat your hearing aids.
I think of you when the violets bloom because I know that's the way you want me to remember.