> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.needagarden.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Her Garden - URL: https://www.needagarden.com/her-garden/ - Published: 2026-08-12T21:30:03.000Z - Updated: 2026-08-13T03:29:41.000Z - Description: Who was I to judge a woman who'd been alone since November in the home she built with her husband of forty years? - Author: Tanya Hart - Tags: grief, garden, family, Deep Thoughts by T., #chapter, Musings From the Garden --- Sunday, August 9th, 2026 was arguably one of the hottest days of the summer, and it was the day we moved my mom out of her forever home. My siblings and I agreed to meet at 9 a.m. to beat the sun. Every single one of us was late. None of us has a particular track record of punctuality (if anyone did, it would be me), but I think the daunting task ahead slowed us all down. The day went smoother than I anticipated, if I'm being honest. Mom wasn't fully packed. When we arrived, she was sitting on the deck smoking a cigarette- overwhelmed, sitting in her silent pushback, her grief. This day was something she'd been rejecting for months, and when the moment finally arrived, she couldn't just give in to it. I kept thinking: who was I to judge a woman who had been essentially alone since last November, in the home she built with her husband of forty years? The same house he withered away in. Sleeping in the same bed where we said our final goodbyes to my father. So we worked around her. My mom wasn't equipped for how those months unfolded. None of us were, but her least of all. For as long as I can remember, we joked as a family about how dad would finally get his retirement- the open road on his Goldwing, the projects, all the things he wanted for himself after a lifetime of putting everyone else first. My dad, the saint. Forever selfless in his marriage, forever in orbit around my mother. She was his sun, and he built his whole life in her light. On the drive home, car loaded with moms belongings, I kept pondering "is this just what happens when someone dies?"... moving day was a series of jokes, shared memories, glimmers of all things dad. Is this how my siblings and I will pass the time now, forever? Sharing all the things that used to be, sprinkled with the challenges we face with mom? Today, August 12th, 2026, I had to swing by mom and dad's to grab one of the plants off the deck for her. I took a moment to walk around to make a list of things left to do, or forgotten. As I walk around, I took a long pause, overlooking my moms own garden. One of the saddest forms of grief I've been experiencing is witnessing my mom's garden. Today it is an overgrown tangle of ornamental perennials, wild perennials, weeds. There's no longer a breeze, thanks to fencing a neighbor put up, and the full sun, in all its glory, beats down- turning what was once lush into dry, dusty, brown leftovers. Dad did everything for that garden. He helped create the space for her: the irrigation, the manual labor, the funding of every new dream she dug into the dirt. He'd spend weekends at work collecting overtime, then come home and keep making mom's visions real. Two years ago the garden was so alive and beautiful that my aunts were summoned to come collect chunks of it to plant in their own yards (I come from a long line of garden witches). Even then, things were starting to overgrow; plants needed to be moved because of the heat. Room needed to be created for new growth. Then last summer, the garden went untouched. On June 2nd, 2025, my parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary. That year, it was celebrated on the third floor of the local hospital- dad had been admitted the night before with shoulder pain. On that day, honoring four decades of commitment, the two of them sat together in a hospital bed, holding hands, laughing, kissing just to gross me out. On that day, a doctor walked into the to interrupt the smiles with the news that dad likely had cancer. Almost five exact months later, my father left the chains of this life. I wanted to write, "we lost him five months later." But the truth is, we started losing him almost immediately. Between the cancer and the treatments, my father rapidly became a shell of the man he was. He lost his vision, his ability to communicate, to eat...all his dignities, one by one. Life can be cruel. And that's one of the reasons I grieve. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/10/ff/10ff0a19-8041-4819-84a6-e782df344c71/content/images/2026/08/96654F99-6ED4-45D1-9A77-E41A4C71FA38.JPEG) Her Garden