The near complete set of vintage china sold for twenty-five dollars at the garage sale. After they were put into the car and headed down the road, I knew my heart would be forever chipped like the one tea cup and its faithful companion I kept as a reminder.

The sentimentality stirred like dust, reminding me of the savory morsels that would find their way upon the delicate white and subtle blue floral-swirled pattern. Fragrant, delicious memories stirred in my mind as I recalled platefuls of Grammy’s Sunday pot roast and bowls ladled to the brim with Dad’s chicken stew. And, my favorite, those little plates…. salad plates, that were just my size when I was a little girl…. brought such sweet joy—Mom’s Hummingbird cake!

As the car disappeared over the last hill, lost in the distance of the tapering street, fading foliage and shrinking trees, so went my great-grandmother’s dishes. Suddenly, my heart sank and my body was overcome by anxiety. There was a deeper sense of loss I hadn’t expected. I felt compelled to chase after the faded green sedan with all my might, no matter how far or long into the night that it would lead. Instead, my reality was awakened by my breathlessness and pounding heart…feeling as though just I ran a 5k.

It was 3 o’clock. The sale was over. I tried to hum away the disappointment in myself as I put things away. But, there was no tune that uplifting. Nothing could drown out the sounds I imagined of those dishes rattling about in a box from the backseat, as if I could hear them screaming back at me, “take me home”. I was crushed.

During troubled times like this, I’ve always found peace in the garden. I guess that makes sense, as there I am surrounded by hopeful blooms, tender pods, butterflies and creepy crawly things. There’s light and life all around. The flowers and vegetables are sun kissed and the freshly troweled earth has streams of wetlands about the stalks. The smells and sights bring such peace.

It’s a warm day, but not hot. In fact, its a perfect day. I take off my hat, my eyes closed, and I stretch out my arms up and wide as I arch my back. The buzzing of bees provide the humming the I couldn’t muster earlier. It’s truly music to my soul.

I didn’t realize how long I had been preening the glorious bounty. But, I did know that it was going to take a little more than stretching to get me up and moving from the position I had been sitting. Upon standing and brushing off my pants, I heard my own laughter. It came in the comfort of the days when I would ask my mom how old she was… she’d reply, “old as the hills and twice as dusty”. And, if you could ask my Grammy and my Great, they would tell you the same.

I plucked off a tomato to take into the house. After those few hours of being a garden pixie, I thought nothing would be better for dinner than a nice tomato sandwich with mayo and a little black pepper. And maybe a bit of potato salad to help round things out. As I plucked the beautiful red fruit, I could smell the fresh green aroma of its fuzzy stem. I was suddenly eight years old, standing there with Pop; with a “mater” in one hand and salt shaker in the other. Life was good. Then, filtering through the mosaic pedals and vining tendrils, came the soft whispers of the blue floral and swirls rising above the humming bees; seemingly taunting my memories.

I stopped. I was met with a thought—that little faded green sedan with a mother and her two young children. I remembered our conversation during which time I could see how delighted she was with the dishes, my dishes, that she confiscated for twenty-five dollars. I recall her telling me how they had just moved to town. Her and the kids were out scouting for bargains as well as nostalgic pieces. She said she just couldn’t waste her days amongst too many modern day spoils. She was thrilled about her prior stop where she had picked up 24 mason jars for just two dollars. The kids were excited about mama making up their favorite preserves and meat chutney.

It was at that moment when the whisperers completely faded and my heart became whole; less the chip that remained. And, that twenty-five dollar sale…it became a priceless memory in my knowing of how the old love was embraced by a new and of how the heirloom would continue to bloom just like those in the garden that Pop sowed so many years ago.

Now, the only sound I can hear is my tummy hankering for that tomato sammy….

Yes, it is a beautiful day, here amongst the blooms.