Loving Levi Greene

Chapter 1: Eden

The sun is barely touching the lowest branch of the old oak when I make it to the gate of the garden. The grass is slick with glittering dew, and the crisp air nips at my face as if to say good morning. I smile to myself.

Mom loved early Saturday mornings just like this one.

On Saturday's, chores are pushed back to be completed at a later time than usual. This leniency is granted with hopes of catching up on much needed sleep after the busy work week.

Busy, as in all of father's meetings spilling over into dinner time, and before her death, mother being left to tutor me in a variety of subjects.

These subjects varied from writing and arithmetic to history and a multitude of languages. Even with the classes and tutoring, I'm really not fluent in any language other than English.

Sometimes even that is questionable.

Saturday mornings, however, were rarely spent with sleeping. Mother and I used to utilize this time in the garden. Our own personal Eden. Eden can be found behind the towering estate that we call home.

The garden is a combination of paved pathways and blooming flora. Spanish moss drapes across low-hanging branches. Clusters of vivid petals and buds can be seen climbing towers of curving lattice. Tiny sprigs of curls wave from vines worn by poised marble statues. Blooming roses are tucked in snuggly next to white iron benches. Dramatic water fountains attract colorful feathered friends. The movement of butterfly wings fluttering about will catch your eye every so often. You can smell the aromatic, earthy tones of bursting buds and damp soil. This picturesque scene is complete with a large, old, oak tree posing as the perfect backdrop for the scene.

The oak tree has thick, sturdy branches that have been climbed by many children throughout the years. This giant has watched our family for several generations. I don't know exactly how many generations, and when I asked father, he mumbled something about his great-great-great grandfather planting it.

I'm not sure on the exact number of "greats", and of course, he did not elaborate further.

He never does.

In contrast, my mother was always excited to be around me. She was my best friend. My role-model.

My person.

My mother's name was Alice. She had a waterfall of honey-blonde locks that cascaded down her back. She had clear blue eyes that crinkled when she laughed. She had a calming presence about her. She always knew exactly what to say when I was feeling sad. She was a caring woman. She would stop in town to carry sacks of goods for elderly and children alike. She was smart and could outwit anyone and everyone who tried to make her feel small. Mother never felt small or weak. And if she ever did, she never let it show. She was radiant in all ways. Just the simple act of her walking into a room seemed to lift whatever looming negativity was present, cleansing the atmosphere with light and positivity.

Of course, this description was accurate before she became deathly ill. 3 years and 1 month ago, my mother died of influenza.

She became short breathed and spoke less because of it. Her skin became clammy, pale, and damp. Her hair became lackluster and brittle. And soon, she was to weak to lift her head from the pillow. She stayed in her chambers, tucked away beneath layers and layers of the heaviest wool, but never managed to find warmth.

She was sick like this for weeks, slowly declining in health while father continued to busy himself with never ending work. I stayed with her the entire time. I only left her side to use the toiletries. I spent countless hours desperately praying to God, begging and pleading with him to save my mother.

To breathe life into her again.

I bargained, screamed, and cried to him. I even nursed her with remedies, soups, and teas of harvested herbs from Eden. I replaced damp towels from her forehead day in and day out.

One evening, after hours of attempting to break her fever with teas, towels, and prayer, she gave up the fight. Her clear blue eyes became foggy and unseeing. Her hand in mine became limp and unfeeling. Her life had dwindled down to nothing. Her last breath finally left her parted, cracked lips.

In that moment, a piece of me died too. I swore I could feel it the moment it left me, aching and hollow.

Nor the herbs or God could have saved my mother.

I hope she found warmth in death.

It's the mornings like these that help me feel most connected to my mother. I crouch down, admiring one of my favorite flowers. A true beauty, common, but it's radiancy unmatched, a purple hyacinth. We have an entire section of the garden dedicated to these colorful flowers, and I am grateful.

While looking at the hyacinth, I recall it's likes and dislikes. It loves the sun, hates to be over-watered, and loves to attract bees and butterflies. I try to remember it's symbolic meaning, but become frustrated when I come up short.

With me, I am carrying my mother's plant journal. It is a small black book with worn edges, a crinkled spine, and a few wrinkled pages here and there. It is single handedly the most precious thing I own to date. Inside, my mother has numerous pages filled with drawings and notes about different species of flowers, plants, and herbs. How to care for them, medicinal uses, and even what they symbolize. I have a lot of them memorized, but no where near all of them.

Having and using this journal makes me feel closer to mother, even in death.

I pull out the little black book and start rapidly thumbing through it's fragile pages, searching for the purple hyacinth. A flash of purple meets my eyes and I stop. "The purple hyacinth is a symbol of deep sorrow." Of course that's what it means.

How fitting.