After the Rain: Corrie’s Gardens

The flower arrangement I made in honor of my daughter, Corrie, for her spot at the table.

Some container plants on the front porch, and the other flowers will soon go into other containers and gardens.

Almost four years …

almost four since Corrie earned her wings. For three of those years, I struggled with the coming of spring. In 2021, 2022, and even last year, I felt the tick of March … April … May.

A picture during.a break in the rain of what I believe is a Peace Rose. I love the cream color on the rose. There’s an innocence, which reminded me of Corrie.

A shrub with flowers, which look similar to yarrow, planted by John’s mother, Barbara.

Growing up, spring was my favorite season. It gave a sense or renewal, and if you messed up, you could regrow.

Not to mention, my birthday takes place in May.

This year, I’ve enjoyed the evolution of spring from the earliest flowers, Hyacinths, in February to the tulips in March and phlox in April. I love the candy cane phlox, which I purchased from Iraqi/ Afgan War veterans with their own farm in my area.

The candy cane phlox in front of an angel statue in Corrie’s Butterfly Garden in early April. I moved two pink phlox from either side of the two candy cane phlox I already had to make room for two more I’d bought this year.

This is a wider picture of the statue with the candy cane phlox, and then pink all around.

Part of watching Gardeners World, a longtime UK show available on Amazon Prime, has taught me more, including how to appreciate the flow of the micro seasons: early spring, mid-spring, and late spring. It taught me to cut back my roses hard in late winter, and it has made a difference.

A knockout rose in the Butterfly Garden, which has strong stems for cut flowers.

This hybrid tea rose hasn’t yet bloomed, and still looked so beautiful during a break in the rain.

While I’ve been recovering from one of the toughest, situational depressive/ PTSD episodes since Corrie earned her wings on May 27, 2020; I wrote some. I knocked out some words in fears over our son, my remaining child. I possess a fear and self-blame, which I’m trying to defeat, over my inability to keep my daughter and miscarriage alive.

I redirect a lot of my attention to the gardens and pictures of plants, as a way to remember Corrie, right now, rather than my words.

John’s mother, Barbara’s, Rhododendron on the front corner of the house.It’s at the front of what we call the Cora Belle Garden after all of the Coral Bells planted there.

Beauty after the rain shows on this Patriot hosta.

The Coleus I planted a few weeks ago with lilies and a Vermillionaire plant, attractive to hummingbirds. This garden currently doesn’t have a name.

Each day in my recovery, I feel better, and find pieces of what has helped me thrive, since Corrie’s sudden death and John’s cancer. With the gardens, I plant, do yard work, cut flowers, and collect herbs. There is so much to do and learn with each of the gardens, which represent Corrie’s growth and life on earth. The gardens are a part of my renewal, rebirth, and reconnection with spring.

This garden started with a cherry blossom tree in 2021; the first tree we planted after Corrie’s death.

A dahlia and a Vermillionaire behind the lilies.

I added two Danica and Golden Globe Arborvitaes in the fall. To represent five, I added a Kaleidoscope Abelia.

As I’ve written before, grief is a journey different from mourning, which occurs immediately after loss. There are times we regress for whatever reason. It doesn’t mean we don’t bounce back. I bounce back quicker emotionally than I used to on triggers, but not physically. What people sometimes forget is that trauma and loss take effect on individuals in their health.

I will say gardens and gardening have helped. They are a physical representation of my daughter on Earth. I love walking through them each day, as they give me a sense of peace, no matter what has occurred in the day.