A year on, I'm reconciled to the choices Myra made. And I've forgiven myself for not being as forebearing as I might have.
I find myself standing at the Myra-bed having conversations with her:
— You were right about that clematis – it wasn’t dead. And would you believe, the lily-of-the -valley are already full of flowers? Fragrant little bells.
— Myra Bells. (Bell was her maiden name.)
— I’m sorry I argued about making this flower bed, Mum. It’s lovely now. A special place to stand and chat to you.
— Hmpf. (She wasn’t above an ‘I-told-you-so’.)
— By the way, that camellia you rescued has more flowers on it this year than ever before. Whatever did you feed it?
— TLC, love.