He awoke much like any other day, to the blackness and empty morning view of his room; to the aroma of a damp Autumn morning, much like he had done so many thousands and thousands of times. The air was thick with precipitation, the smell of fresh rain and damp earth from the garden outside his window. It carried through the opening in the wall. Void, unfilled and lacking in color, the sound of the silent morning deafening to the ear was broken up by the flutter of his beating heart.

A rhythm; a pounding synchronicity to the engine of life never quitting, never taking a day off. It pulsates, emitting the essence of life throughout the man’s fleshy form. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp, untainted or polluted air. He inhales the wind, absorbs its gift then exhales his own. Purposefully, observantly he opens his lungs up, stretching his tightly bound rib cage in an effort to fill every space of the chest cavity with the worlds purity. Deeply, slowly, controlled, the breath is calm. The man’s chest cavity rises and collapses, in perfect tempo, a dance among the morning's breath. A jovial exchange of life between man and sapling. The garden outside his window, smelled of sweet pollen, kissed by the Summer sky. It was a time potion, instantly and spontaneously transporting him back to his child hood.

The boy's mother, with soft eyes and wide smile knelt on both knees, hunched over the shrubs of a thick, over grown garden. Her knees are stained with the dark undergrowth of the earth which lies beneath her hands and feet. When digging her fingers down into the damp cold soil, she searches for the roots of an unwanted shrub. The grass is a creeping, persistent perennial that reproduces by seeds seems to have over stayed its welcome among the garden residents. Its neighbors, wilt and struggle for their nutrients to grow. The quack grass forms its long, jointed, straw-colored rhizomes into a heavy mat which covers the soil, from which new shoots may soon appear. The devilish grass has its hold on the community, gripping and suffocating the roots of the mother's perennials.

“You pesky thing you, just let go and come out of the ground!" the mother whispered to herself in annoyance, obviously aggravated but the amount of energy it was taking her to purify her garden.

The little boy watched his mother work in her garden, in the quite hours of the cool morning, just as the May sky begins blazing to life in reddish glory. She began her day’s chore of tending to her Organic Babies, as she once referred to them by excavating the cancerous weeds of death from her children. This was her morning meditation practice, an act of faith and gratitude to the world for another shot at living.

The last few months had taken a toll on her, the weakening of her immune system was almost debilitating as she was constantly sick in bed. The fever which she had been fighting for the past three days had finally subsided enough for her to make it out of her darkened room and into the light of day. Her appetite was slowly returning, but only slightly since the doctors had only recently taken her off the poison which was supposed to heal her, after almost completely destroying her first.

The boy sat next to his mother, observing the way she handled the flowers of her garden with care. Such a compassionate woman, loving and strong. She was this boys back bone and shelter. His momma bear, loving and gentle but uncontrollable in rage when protecting her cub from danger. How he needed his mother to be there for him, how much he wanted to spend the rest of his life by her side, tending to this garden. How desperately he was clinging to these quite morning hours, to be with her, to be together, never apart.

The boy loves his mother much like he loves the world. In fact, the world and his mother were quite interchangeable as his mother was the boy's whole world. The little boy watched quietly as his mother struggled to catch her breath from the battle with the pesky weed.

“My oh my little boy, this plant sure is stubborn, isn't it?” The mother exclaimed trying to catch her breath. “Do you think you could give me a hand?” she asked, reaching out towards the little boy for help.

The boy could see it in his mother’s eyes that she was really struggling and tired. There was something about the gleam of her eyes, sort of dull and faded. The eyelids were slightly sunken, and the bags beneath them were drooping. For the first time in the little boy's life, his mother seemed old and tired. Not just tired, no, tired is when you stay up too late and get up too early, this was something far more than tired. She had aged since the end of Winter, she began to sleep more and work less. Some days she never even got out of bed, and many nights she had to sleep in the hospital, the little boy staying at his Grandma's house in the mean time. He did not like his Grandma’s house; it smelled of cat litter and baby lotion. Allergic to the feline animal, its fur covered the house and made his eyes burn and water. He just wished he could sleep in his own bed, comfortably and not on his Grandma’s old sofa, which doubled as a scratching post for the cat. His father, which he had never met, left the two of them from the moment he was born. A guilt the little boy had carried all his life, was amplified in the moment of knowing it was just the two of them, his momma and him, struggling to make it through life.

The little boy was not dumb, in fact, he was somewhat of an Old Soul as some might call it. Observant to his surroundings, the little boy did not miss anything, especially when it came to his mother.

“Momma”, the little boy finally says as he breaks the silence. “Why are you so tired?”

The boy had watched his healthy young mother, no older than twenty five degrade over the past few months into a shell of her former self. She had lost weight, this was obvious, her cheek bones and brow ridge protruded exaggeratedly as she shrank into her own skeleton. The mother, obviously taken back by his comment, with a look of shock at the spontaneity of the question took a deep breath to collect herself, and pulled the child closely into her arms.

The child climbed into her lap and although this was his mother, he knew this to be true, she did not feel like the mother he had grown up with. She was, fragile. Even the boy at the age of six could notice this much, she was degrading rapidly, the life force slowly leaving her body.

“Aw, little boy. Tired...is that what I am?” The mother whispered almost humorously to her child: “I’ll have you know, that I am very much awake right now. I’m up and about, are I not? And you are awake yourself...this is not a dream is it?” The mother playfully pinched the child to prove he was not dreaming. The child was unmoved by this gesture, and sensing the child’s dissatisfaction with her answer, the mother carefully began to unfold the truth to him

.

“Do you see this garden, little boy? It takes a great deal of care and effort to grow a healthy garden. One must constantly replenish nutrients to the soil, turn the earth and loosen the soil as to create a good footing for plants to grow. Do you see this flower, little boy. It started off as a seed, much like you or I. It is on a journey, it wants to live, to create color and interact with the Sun. The whole garden is a community, they work together to keep continuous growth evolving. In a healthy garden, little boy, all plants have enough room to grow, the community is strong, connected and help one another to succeed. The flowers all grow together, happy as can be in the warm summer months, but just as Autumn air soon arrives, even the healthiest of flowers must give up there struggle to survive.” The mother explained.

“Why can’t the flowers just stay around forever?” the little boy interrupted, it seemed so simple to the childish mind, so young and care free. “Why do they choose to give up?”

“It’s not that they choose to give up, little boy, its more so they have to, it is their time to go. Look at this weed for instance. Whether this weed is here sucking the life from the flower or not, the flower is still eventually going to pass on either way. Some flowers go sooner than others, not all live the same length of life, but in the end, all flowers must give in.” the mother gingerly explained to the child.

“Where do the flowers go, after they give up? Do they go to flower heaven?” the boy asked innocently.

“Something like that,” the mother responded. “You see, all of life which is around you, is made possible through the expression of God. Life is life, its the movement of winds and the beating of our heart. Much like these flowers grow, we grow too. Much like these flowers die, we die too. The truth is, little boy, Momma is very sick and I well soon have to give up my fight. I am tired sweet child, my body is aging more quickly than expected. There is nothing more that can be done.” the boys mother managed to explain before sobbing uncontrollably.

“Do you know that I love you little boy? I am always here with you. Look at this garden, look at yourself and remember me, your momma because I am never leaving you. You are never alone.”

The child said nothing, he clasped his mother tightly around her waste as they both sat silently in each others arms.

Months came to pass, and eventually the little boy's mother did move on. She had battled with Brain Cancer for long enough and it was her time to go. The old man, now laying in his bed, remembered what it was like to lose his mother at such a young age. He felt a deep emptiness in his chest after she had died, gone from the world forever. He wished he had gotten to know her for much longer than was allowed. He felt robbed of his child hood and innocence, he felt betrayed and beaten, but never really alone.

Having grown into the old man he was now, he still felt his mother's presence around him even after she passed on. His Grandma had raised him in his home, allowed him to grow up in the only place he had ever known. The little boy kept his mother’s memory alive by tending to her garden, plucking the cancerous weeds which had metaphorically changed his life. This garden was his mother, and in some way or another, she lived on with him, continued to grow and ignite in color, through the garden.

As the little boy became a man and moved out to start a life of his own, he made a promise to himself, to always tend to his garden. To keep his mother alive with him until the end.

The little boy is now an old man. He is tired, very tired. He awoke to the smell of his garden, which brings him back to his mother. “Soon, momma. Soon.” The old man whispers to himself as he forces himself up for the day to mend to his precious garden.