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Before Mary was diagnosed, we were friends, but not close friends. We lived down the road, attended the same church, chatted here and there in passing. I have two girls; she had two boys. She would bring N.J. and his older brother to play as soon as N.J. could walk on his own; he would toddle through the rows of my garden, stuffing cherry tomatoes into his cheeks, tugging on fat pea pods, and eating cucumbers like you eat an ear of corn. He seemed to delight in the magic of growing things the way I do; we are born gardeners, part of that secret society of people for whom weeding is not a chore, but a pleasure.
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After Mary was diagnosed I never really knew what to say, but I did learn, over time, to just be there, with vegetables, with bread, with just myself. I saw the washed-out garden box in the backyard that summer, but I didn’t yet feel confident enough to suggest planting it again or to just go ahead and do it. Over the winter, though, Mary let me be one of the people who took her to chemo and other appointments. We grew close, closer than we had ever been. We both had strong opinions, we both swore a lot, we both liked Thai food. I would get a spread of things to nibble on together while the medicine dripped into her port, while she got hot and then chilled and then dried out and thirsty; and then when it was over and she was exhausted, I’d bring the car around, and we’d drive, the winter sun setting behind us as we headed home from the cancer center.
A parent’s first worst nightmare is something happening to their child; the second worst nightmare is something happening to them, because of the sense that the loss of a parent leaves children vulnerable to danger, to pain. Mary said to me once, on one of our many slow walks up and down our road, “at least it’s not one of the boys. I couldn’t handle that.” But they, of course, and Mary’s husband, have to handle that it was her.
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When it became clear that treatment was no longer working and that it would be days or weeks rather than months, the new growing season was just beginning. On one of my last visits to the house while Mary was still alive, before I knocked on the door in the garage I walked around back to see the garden box. Mary had covered it with a tarp the previous summer, and I pulled back a corner: just a few weeds here and there. The soil needed turning, but it was soft and loose and rich, I could tell, full of good lobster and blueberry compost from the coast of Maine. I had some extra pea fencing and plenty of seed; a grower at the local farmers’ market donated kale, tomato, and cucumber seedlings. When I whispered to Mary how good the box looked, how pleased N.J. was with his garden, she smiled, eyes closed, and said, “covering that box last fall was the one thing I wanted to get done in the yard, and I did it.” And, “take a picture for me.”
Someone brought a sunflower in a pot; N.J. planted it in a corner of his box. He carefully tended his vegetables all summer after his mother died, pulling every other onion plant for scallions so the remaining onions would bulb up nicely, weeding around the kale, training the peas as they climbed. His eyes are dark and deep and full of pain, but kids, like plants, are tough.
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Elisabeth Fairfield Stokes’s work has been featured in The New York Times, TIME, The Washington Post, Pacific Standard, Salon, and elsewhere. She lives in Maine and teaches writing at Colby College.