PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My grandmother loved her garden, just as much as she loved gardenias, but there her favorite flowers were never seen. She loved the fragrance, the color and how delicate and beautiful the gardenias were. My grandmother used to tell me stories of when she was younger, how courting used to be for her. She said that every Sunday the girls would wear their best dresses and walk to a nearby park where a kiosk would be. Boys would be walking around the kiosk by one side, carrying a single gardenia each, and if the girls were interested, they would join walking in the opposite direction.  The flower will he handed, after shy gazes were exchanged. Before she knew it, the gardenias stopped, she was married now and she was happy. My grandmother now sang about her beloved flowers while taking care of the house and her four children. But winter came faster and chilliest than ever. It first took her husband and months before Christmas they all had to say good-bye to their grandma. It was a cold winter, the coldest they had faced, but as seasons pass, so does bad times. Summer arrived with her first grandson, he came home greeted by a blooming garden and warmth that made the sadness they felt go away. Summers later I was born, the first girl from the grandchildren, followed by two small babies who ended up being the tallest of the family. My grandmother’s singing came back and we grew up with her songs. We saw her as the happiest woman and by her side was always my aunt. Never one without the other. She brought her gardenias and planted them. She never grew tired of them, every day she went out to her garden to water and admire them. But as years pass, so does good times. It came as fast as the autumn winds, you never expect them to get to you, so you’re never prepared when they do. At the start of autumn my grandmother fell ill and ended up bedridden. Silence came back with the cold. She became weaker faster than we thought. We brought her a hundred gardenias so she could see her flowers a last time. By the end of autumn, we were the ones having to say good-bye to our grandma. She was buried in the white her beloved flowers wear. My grandmother loved her garden, just as much as she loved gardenias, but there her favorite flowers are ill.