Author’s Note
Just as adversity challenges us to discover hope, renewal, and beauty, memories and present actions encapsulate and embrace gratitude, connection, and a lingering sense of hope.
When I approached writing this story, I wanted to capture the intimate human experience — that connection and bond between memory and place — physical space as a reflection of a person’s life, and the impact of moments filled with sensory details.
My father passed away over twenty years ago, but his memories still visit me from time to time. “The Garden” is a work of fiction inspired by my experience at a significant turning point in my grieving journey with my father’s passing.
This is a tribute to a father's love and the lasting impact on his daughter and family.
©2025 Myrna Urmanita. All Rights Reserved.
The Garden
Akira poked her head through an opening in the blanket, and bitterly cold air slapped her warm face. She quickly dropped back down into her soft pillow.
She felt Momo's wet nose nudging her feet.
"Get up, Momo," she yawned. Momo ignored her, burrowing deeper under the sheets.
Another Saturday. Every Friday afternoon, Akira packed up Momo and drove to her Mom’s house, and every Saturday morning, they woke up in the same cold, stuffy guest room.
Before her father passed away, Akira promised to watch over her Mom. Her parents were together for over fifty years. Her father did everything for her mother—and Akira worried about how she’d manage.
Suddenly, Momo hurled off the bed and, with a thump, her short, stubby legs landed on the carpet. Akira jumped up, scooped her into her arms, and dashed down the hallway.
Hesitating at the sliding glass door, she glanced down at her bare feet.
"I forgot my slippers," Akira shrieked.
She stepped onto the icy concrete—sharp needles pricked her skin. A chill crept up her legs, freezing her in place.
Excited, Momo wriggled free from her arms, scurried into the bushes, and vanished into the mist. Akira's father's garden was her playground. She loved exploring every corner, patrolling like a little guard dog.
The garden was Akira’s father’s sanctuary, too—a quiet space where he escaped. He had a gift for nurturing plants, pouring his heart into every tree, flower, and vegetable.
His passion was rooted in his childhood back home in Japan, where he studied horticulture. A proud immigrant, determined that his family learn English, become citizens, and get an education.
He retired as a county landscape architect. Diligent and resourceful, he upcycled materials long before it was trendy, building everything from scratch—from drip systems to greenhouses.
As an art student, Akira remembered the wooden Pochade box her father had made for her. She rarely used it. It was a gesture of support, but it was too heavy for her to carry on her steep walks up to campus. It reminded her of his unwavering belief in her, even when it became a bitter reminder of her self-doubts, hesitations, and fears.
Remembering these moments, she spotted one of her father's work gloves on the ground. She picked it up, and a wave of sadness swept over her as she looked around.
The garden, once vibrant, was sad and lifeless. She felt the loneliness creep in as she walked. The fruit trees, once proud and abundant, now leaned sadly, crippled by the relentless winds.
Akira ran to the garage, grabbed burlap sacks, and covered them as her father used to. Her fingers, numb and frozen from the cold, she struggled against their fragile limbs.
“I miss him too,” Akira whispered.
She pushed down on the worn and splintered stakes, holding them up, and secured them as best she could.
The earth was soaked with rainwater and filled her nostrils with a musky scent. As she stepped carefully, the sticky mud hugged her sinking feet. The mud squishing between her toes tickled, and it gripped tightly onto Akira's feet as she struggled with all her strength to lift her legs and pull free.
"I feel like a kid again," she cried out, giggling, as she splashed her feet in the rain puddles.
Turning around the bend, Akira saw the bamboo trellises her father had built that once stretched toward the sky, now collapsed by the storm. The vines hung unsupported and defeated. She leaned and reached out to a lifeless vine, catching it as it dropped into her hand.
“I’m so sorry. I wish he were here too,” she murmured, cradling it gently.
Near the concrete patio, she almost slipped on a puddle of water. The hose, twisted and lifeless, was spurting water from its ruptured underbelly. She carefully untangled it, and as she rolled it back onto its rack, a splash of cool water spurted from the nozzle and washed the dirt off her hands.
Walking away, she turned to the hose and mouthed silently, “Thank you. I miss Dad too.”
Akira approached her father's tool shed; the stale, familiar scent transported her back to childhood. It was comforting, like a familiar blanket. Inside, she looked around in awe. The shed was a treasure chest, filled with gardening boots, tools, and her father's DIY handiwork — only he could understand.
Stepping outside, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She could hear Momo scampering on the gravel path.
That’s when it hit her—regret, gratitude, and clarity all at once. Akira never realized how much this garden had meant to her father—how much it had given him purpose, peace, and pride. He didn’t just plant things. He created.
“Dad’s gone,” she murmured shakily. The weight of that realization settled in her chest heavily.
But wherever she walked, whatever she touched—he was there. She felt his love, his energy, his joy tucked into every corner, every fruit tree, every vine, every mud hole, and every garden hose. This was no ordinary garden.
Just as she poured her heart into her art, her father poured his passion into his garden. This was her father’s masterpiece, his art gallery.
Feeling renewed, Akira lifted her face to the sun breaking through the clouds. She stretched her arms high toward the sky and waved her fingers into the light.
“Thank you, Dad, I get it!” she cried out excitedly.
Suddenly, Momo appeared, racing toward her. Surprised, Akira quickly bent down, scooping her through the air.
Momo barked as she twirled her high, paws outstretched to the sun. Akira laughed, breathless and free, and the garden answered—a chorus of leaves, wind, and memory—her father’s presence in every note.
—
Some things grow and begin quietly—patience shows what will bloom.