The first anniversary

My mother achieved her wish for death on April 11, 2019.  

On the first anniversary of her death I scattered her ashes in the garden she’d made. The camellia she nursed back to life was white with waxen blooms and her sulking clematis finally flowered. She'd also insisted on transplanting lily-of-the-valley.

—  It's invasive. And it smells of old ladies.
— ​It will remind you of me then. (She'd moved in  with us at at the time.)  

Unseasonally early, the lily-of-the-valley in that patch of garden sprouted by April 11, 2020.  Myra's great-grand daughter toddled about, poking at the rows of tiny, white bells on the plant. The day was fresh and sunny, full of peace and promise.

—   By the way, that camellia you rescued has more flowers on it this year than ever before. Whatever did you feed it?
—   TLC, love

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.