I spoke to a close friend recently after his father had passed away. He was, of course, distraught, and we reflected on his sadness together. But he was also grateful to have been there as his dad’s life expired.
“It was the perfect death,” he confided. “My dad had a long and full life, the loose ends of his legacy had been tidied, and there was no pain.”
I marveled at this objective synopsis, delivered with a balance of emotional and clinical precision that only a doctor could bring. And I marveled, too, at his insights.
The perfect death.
If, as we all know, death is a part of life, how great that this last bit had gone so well. How nice that among life’s myriad ups and downs he could stick the landing on this last chapter? Everyone loves a good ending to the journeys we have shared together. How cool to witness this comfortable transcendence, this tidy crossing into the deeply rutted routes of our memory, and into history.
A few weeks later I found myself staring at a mature Chinese fringe flower in our garden. Its glorious presence confronted me, the green and plum colored leaves with a few bright pink blooms hinting at the impending flower season. Our plans to expand the wood deck also confronted me. Only one could prevail, and reluctantly I realized it was not my Loropetalum friend.
I thought about the day I planted this beautiful plant, a full 19 years ago. It had grown up beside our family, slowly gaining a mature structure outside the bedroom window while simultaneously expressing a winding, almost impulsive looking presence that defied its static place. It had survived the failed Citrus above and behind it, the Rubus beneath it, the swapped lawn and lost railing of the old ball tossing area where small soccer games and diligent fielding practice helped shape future athletes.
Mostly, it had survived the Iceberg roses. They had gone just last year, a mixed legacy of function and form, almost doomed to a duplicitous relationship in a cozy garden where their prime role was to dissuade small kids from going where they shouldn’t while bringing beauty to that banal purpose. Their death was NOT perfect (have you removed mature rose roots lately?). They did not go quietly into their slight, though in truth the fringe flowers seem a tad lonelier since their passing. A mixed legacy for sure.
I stared at my shovel, grudgingly acknowledging its silent reminder. I really didn’t want this plant to be gone, but we really, really wanted to expand our opportunities to comfortably be in the garden with friends and family. This plant’s death would not be in vain, I consoled myself, and it would not be forgotten. I briefly dwelled on the cycle of life, where sadness and joy often seem to intermingle like a bittersweet fog - a vapor of unknown emotional ends and murky conclusions. I thought of deaths in my own family, and specifically the passing of my dad many years ago. Even that deep scar had been salved by the birth of his first grandchild a week before. He left the world with a smile in his heart, and the cycle of life carries on.
I snapped out of my repose eventually, and although the bare space of a once glorious fringe flower still remains, it won’t be empty for long. Soon the deck overhead will fill with laughter and new memories. The ground beneath will find new expressions, and the old photos will show glimpses of a life well-lived in the garden. It’s a pattern as old as time, but one worth acknowledging now and again. And yes, dear reader, perhaps you guessed: the three new Loropetalums are over in the corner, along the new railing. I hope they’re happy and in time can find their own glory, not far from a perfect death in the garden.
DJ