Alaska

My daughter is leaving for Alaska. She is 23 years old with her whole life ahead of her. When I was 23, I found my first full-time job, bought my first car and rented my first apartment. That spring, I planted coleus on a thin strip of earth bordering the concrete patio. This was my first gardening mistake as they burned up over the summer.

Now 33 years later, my garden is a third of an acre, and mature, with an oak overstory 50+ years old. The azaleas beneath them were already established when we bought our home 20 years ago. Understory trees like dogwoods and pawpaws are at least 10 years old. Garden beds with a variety of shrubs and perennials meander here and there, reflecting my interests over the years.

There is a satisfaction in the ease and familiarity of a mature garden. I enjoy the constancy and comfort of memories spanning 20 years. A garden slowly takes shape after a thousand small decisions over time. And while I ask myself why I didn't plant redbuds instread of crape myrtles, for the most part, I am comfortable with my garden.

Sometimes at night, I dream I am 23 years old. I wake up longing to have those years back. But if that were possible, it would require giving up my garden.