The tools that give a tractor purpose are heavy, made of steel and chain. Some do work powered by the same diesel energy release that powers the machine. Some accomplish their task through their sheer weight as the machine pulls it on its way. A tool of the latter sort was attached as I strolled behind the barn.

Changing the tools on a tractor is a fickle affair. Sometimes one slips off, you back the tractor up to the other and slip it on. Sometimes there are bruises, sometime there is blood, of the skinned knuckle variety. Often there are words, not pleasant words, but the tractor and the back of the barn keep your secret tantrums to themselves.

This time there were bruises and words. Off with the box blade, bruises, words. On with the brush hog, more bruises, more words. On to the tractor and off to the field.

Tall grass and wildflowers. So many wildflowers of every color and hue. Bees and butterflies, busy about their labor. The brush hog had just begun to ply its trade when I saw her waving from the drive. Remove the power from the brush hog, lift the tool and drive over to hear what she is saying.

“The wildflowers are so beautiful, maybe we should give them a week or so, what do you think?”

More bruises but no words, just the remembrance of the look in her eyes as she watched the butterflies.

The world is broken
Scream at night
Run or fight

Why?

He made it
We broke it
His blood makes it Love again

Then, suddenly, she was no longer able to tend the garden, unable to care for herself really.  No one saw it coming, bicycling on a clear summer morning seems so ordinary, so wholesome, so right, no one saw it coming.  A four-inch drop from the pavement to the gravel is enough to perturb a bicycle's path and change the course of a life, and the fate of a garden.

As she struggled to recover, the garden was left to the whims of the season.  The long dry summer days, encroaching weeds, and ravenous insects did take their toll.  By the end of the summer, the once beautiful garden looked haggard and neglected.  Some of the plants withered and died, others became infested by intrusive vines and weeds.  It was not just her family and friends who were missing her, the garden was, in its own way, groaning for her return.

The rains came, slow at first but steady.  It was the roses that shown first, bursting with bright color, seemingly overnight.  Then the salvia greggii with their bright purple blossoms.  Even without her care, or, most likely because of her earlier care, the garden’s beauty re-emerged.  Her healing came, slow at first but steady.  Then the light in her eyes returned and so the nous of her mind and joy in her heart as she plays with her grandchildren.

She’ll be out in the garden later today, tending to the roses.