April 24

Dear Perel,

The garden is in full bloom, and it’s beautiful. The first petunia opened yesterday, and seven others followed like ducklings. Esther brought Raizy and little Chayala to have a picnic in “Bubby’s Magic Garden,” and they spent most of the time twisting daisies into their hair. It reminded me of the flower crown you made for Batsheva at her bas mitzvah party, and it made me so happy to see your garden still being used, two generations later. I let the girls water the hibiscus, because it’s dying anyway, so it doesn’t matter if it’s overwatered. I also gave the last of the oregano to Esther; it died a few days ago.

I took a nap after Esther left with the girls, so now it’s late, and I can’t sleep. I tried to go walking, but I started taking our old route, out of habit, and I had to rush back, fighting tears. I came home and called your name to an empty kitchen, empty garden, empty home.

Then my eyes fell on the geranium, and I was sure I heard your voice singing softly, the way you always did when you tended to your favorite flower. I could see you reading in your armchair, looking up every few minutes to admire the way the sunlight shone on the geranium petals. And then the vision was gone. You stopped singing, your chair was empty, and the geranium looked sad and lonely in the moonlight. I missed you more than ever. I looked around at the newly emptied pots and wilting flowers, and promised myself that of all the plants, of the whole garden, I will make sure your geranium survives.

Yaakov noticed that I was somewhat distracted over the past few days. I told him about the garden, how this is the first spring that I’m taking care of it. He had a nice perspective; he said that just like spring comes after winter, difficult or sad times will eventually be followed by a happier time, and like the seasons keep coming back, our personal springs will always come again. It comforted me to think of your garden that way. I still can’t picture happy times in my future, but maybe my spring will come again someday.

Forever yours,

Gershon

May 5

Dear Perel,

Chaim and Batsheva came in this Shabbos. I had invited Yaakov to come with his family, but he declined. Maybe he knows I’m not a great cook. Maybe he’s nervous to impose on an old man. It was very nice to have Batsheva.

It’s funny, for the first few minutes I wondered who was watching their children, but then I remembered that their children have their own children to watch. Batsheva gave me some old photos she’d dug up. There was a picture of us from her wedding and a few family pictures in the garden.

There were a few from before Baruch and Chava Leah were born, so it’s just us with Batsheva and baby Yosef. Batsheva made herself busy arranging the pictures on the mantle and making flower arrangements for Shabbos. As soon as that was done, she moved on to the kitchen and started making seven different dishes at the same time. She looked just like you when you would cook for Yom Tov, bustling around chopping vegetables with one hand and stirring sauce with the other. She even shooed the men out of the kitchen in the same tone of voice that you used to use.

I saw the resemblance the whole Shabbos. She looked like you and talked like you. She even davened like you, and I almost called her by your name when she closed her siddur. It was comforting, like I had a shadow of you back for a few days, but it made it hard to see her leave.

As soon as I closed the door, the strange quietness came back. Then, even though Batsheva had scrubbed and organized the whole house, I looked around for something to clean, just to distract myself from the quiet.

The only thing I found was the herb garden. The window they sit next to had been left open, and everything wilted overnight. I gathered what I could, but most of it was unusable. There was a decent amount of mint left, and a little rosemary, but that’s all.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t save the plants. I know you would’ve been able to somehow repot them and bring them back to life. I guess I don’t have much life left in me.

Your loving husband,

Gershon

May 10

Dear Perel,

I made a mistake. I realized today that I’ve been watering the succulents on the wrong schedule, and now they’re all withered. Yosef and Chava Leah both told me that it’s fine and that you wouldn’t be upset, and I know they’re right, but I still feel like I let you down.

A few of the flowers outside have also started wilting. I know that’s just how nature and seasons work, but your garden has been such a comfort to me, and I’m not ready to be without it, without you. When I look around at the garden in full bloom, it’s easy to feel like you’re here with me.

Now your beautiful garden is starting to fade, and it’s taking you along with it. The tulips are drooping, the peonies are losing petals, and your perfect white roses are starting to turn brown. The lilacs and daisies still look nice, though, and the petunias bloomed late, so we still have some time left before the garden is gone.

Of course, marigolds always bloom late, and yours haven’t opened yet; maybe they’ll last into the summer? As far as the indoor flowers, the orchid is still clinging to life, and the peace lily has been looking sad lately, but your geranium is doing beautifully. I’m taking extra care of it, just like I promised.

Baruch and Shira invited me to spend Shabbos with them in Brooklyn, but I didn’t want to risk losing the geranium while I was gone, so I told them it wasn’t a good week.

Yaakov — that new chavrusa — thought that it would be better to go and enjoy a Shabbos with my children, and that it would be silly to let a flower hold me back from that. He told me gently that you doubtlessly loved your son and daughter-in-law more than your geranium, and I know he’s right. But I’m not sure how much longer the geranium will hold up on its own, and no matter what happens, I am not going to let your favorite flower die.

With all my love,

Gershon

May 11

Dear Perel,

I discovered something today. I was learning with Yaakov, and he mentioned that he needed to find a new afternoon babysitter for his children.

When I asked if his wife works (I was trying to make conversation, you know?), he looked sad, and told me that his wife, Menucha, passed away about a year ago.

Of course, I apologized and gave him my condolences, but suddenly, everything made sense. Why he always knew exactly what to say to me when I talked about you, and why his words were such a comfort to me when I was overwhelmed with missing you.

I think Hashem sent Yaakov to me to show me that I will never be completely alone, and that I will get through this somehow. I tried to find hope in that; after all, most of your garden still stands. It’s like a reminder that even though I don’t have you anymore, there are parts of you that will never truly leave me.

Yours,

Gershon

May 14

Dear Perel,

There was a storm last night. There was thunder and lightning and rain and wind, and by the time I woke up, the entire garden had been destroyed. It was a horrible sight. All the once-vibrant petals were crushed and strewn in the mud all around the yard, and the bushes that were once home to proud and wonderful blossoms were mangled and bare.

I’m so sorry, Perel. I tried so hard to keep your garden alive, but now it’s gone and there’s nothing I can do to bring it back. This morning, I sat on the porch steps and cried. I cried for the garden that had been there since we got married, and for all the happy memories we had in it. I cried for that morning in the spring of our shanah rishonah when you woke me up early, giddy with excitement, to show me the first bloom of the season. I cried for you, and I cried for the last piece of you that was destroyed with the garden.

I went back inside to find a dead orchid, a dying lily, and a lonely geranium with drooping petals. Your geranium, the last flower, the last bit of you that I have left, and I’m not sure that I can protect it.

I miss you so much, Perel. I still look for you, and call your name when I can’t find you, even though I know that you’re not here. I still make two coffees in the morning, but then I eat breakfast alone. I still can’t walk our old nighttime walking route without breaking down.

But even without you here, I’ll never forget you. Your geranium will survive, and whenever I look at it, it will remind me of you, and your memory will live on.

Your devoted husband,

Gershon

May 18

Dear Perel,

It’s gone. I was cleaning out the lily pot, and as I lifted it up, it knocked over the geranium pot and it fell on the floor. When I moved to pick it up, I stepped on the stem and the geranium broke. I failed you.

I’m sorry,

Gershon

May 20

Dear Perel,

I spent so long trying to keep your geranium alive, but really, it’s just a plant. Watering it won’t bring you back. Writing letters won’t bring you back. Nothing will bring you back, because you’re gone.

Why am I writing these letters anyway? They go into a box and no one reads them. I just stay here alone, a delusional old man.

Your grieving husband,

Gershon

August 27

Dear Perel,

I had an interesting conversation with Yaakov this week. For some reason, I just can’t stop thinking about it. I’m almost embarrassed to be writing a letter to you again, but you were always the levelheaded one, the one I’d talk to when I had a lot on my mind.

This is not much, really. Yaakov is making an upsheren for his son, and he’s very nervous about it. I’ll recount the conversation as I remember it.

“Menucha was always so good at these things,” Yaakov told me. “Party planning was her thing, not mine. This is the first big family milestone since she passed away, and I really don’t want this event to be a disappointment.”

I asked him who he thought he would be disappointing.

He shrugged. “My in-laws and my children, I guess.” He paused. “Myself, really. As much as I try, I can’t fill her shoes all the time.” He heaved a deep sigh and stared at the table. “This is the first time we’ll be taking family pictures without her. I’m not even sure we should do pictures at all.”

It took me a few minutes to muster up something to say. “Is it really about the pictures? I don’t know if she would really care how fancy the upsheren is. As long as you remember her, I think she’ll be happy.”

Yaakov looked at me. “What do you mean ‘remember her’?” he asked.

I thought about that for a minute. Making a fancy event would be one way to remember his wife, but that’s not the important way, is it?

“Her most important quality isn’t party planning,” I said. “It’s how much she loved your family. You can remember the parties, but that’s just a detail. The real memory is her middos, and how much she means to your family.”

Yaakov seemed satisfied with my answer, he thanked me, but I wasn’t satisfied. I thought about how I’d tried so hard to keep your garden alive. How was that different from Yaakov’s wife’s party planning? What did I really gain from grieving for your garden? There was so much more to you than flowers.

Maybe when I talked to Yaakov, I was really talking to me. I used to listen to you, but maybe it’s time for me to start listening to myself.

Your thoughtful husband,

Gershon

February 5

Dear Perel,

It’s been a while since I’ve written. A lot has happened since I last wrote.

I started going back to shiur and davening with a minyan again. I’ve been learning with Binyamin to help him get extra practice for his bar mitzvah, and we had a seudah for your yahrtzeit yesterday. All the kids were there, of course, and most of the grandkids and even some of the great-grandkids came, which was very nice.

Batsheva and Chaim stayed at our house again, and they brought me a special gift. With the help of all the kids, they collected dozens of pictures of our family in your garden. They put them together in an album, along with short pieces of writing from all the eineklach, reflecting on the happy memories spent with you and your garden.

After spending many hours poring over its pages, I placed the album for display on the table by your armchair, right where the geranium used to sit. Your old chair still reminds me of you, but it doesn’t make me sad anymore. Instead, I think of how lucky I have been to have had such a wonderful wife and family.

I still think a lot about what I said to Yaakov before his son’s upsheren. I’ll always miss you, but I know you want me to be happy. I’ve decided to let the garden grow out. I may not have its flowers anymore, but I’ll always have the fond memories we made while it stood.

With love,

Gershon

August 9

Dear Perel,

It’s been a while, and I must admit that I thought I had outgrown this habit. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you, although I know you don’t want me to be stuck in my grief. But something happened last week, and I can’t stop thinking about you and your garden. I know you’d want to hear about it.

I was sitting on the back porch with our three-year-old great-granddaughter, Perri, looking through the book of photos from your garden. I told her that her Bubby Perel, whom she’s named for, used to have a garden, and her Tatty and Zeidy Yosef used to come play in the garden all the time. She kicked her little legs as they dangled off the porch swing and stared thoughtfully at the now overgrown backyard.

Later, as I sat down for a cup of coffee with Reuven and his wife, whom you’ve never met, their little Perri came running into the kitchen. She was squealing with delight as she showed me the flowers she picked for me, “from Bubby Perel’s garden.”

I looked at the tiny handful of dandelions and weeds in her hand, and for a minute, I was sad. Is this what is left of your beautiful garden?

But then I saw her face, our beautiful einekel who shares your name and blond curls and green eyes, and I understood. The garden brings wonderful memories of flowers, of course. But I look at little Perri, and I realize that you planted so much more than a garden.

With all my love,

Gershon

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 810)