Why do we dedicate gardens and trees and park benches to our deceased loved ones? I’ve never really looked it up, so I can only ponder on it. And this behavior seems to be culturally agnostic. It occurs to me that it’s just something humans want to do. We all must feel something when we are in a beautiful patch of nature that is bigger than ourselves. At least, that’s what I feel. When I look out over a wonderful slice of nature, I feel something grand. I feel like I’m small, but safe. I feel respect and wonder. And sometimes I feel a profound loneliness in the scheme of something so vast. It’s something deep and complicated, and maybe that’s why we dedicate spaces because mourning is also complicated.

I dedicated my garden to my father. For me, this wasn’t just a name on a plaque. After all, my dad and I built it together. I spread some of his ashes there in my garden. So that dedication became a commitment. A commitment that I would be a steward of this place, this little space where I can tend to my plants and watch them grow. It was a commitment that I would care for those plants every day. That they would have the right sun, enough water, quality soil, and be safe from pests. It was a promise that I would tend to struggling plants and help them. It was a pledge that I would treat them for disease. It was a vow that I would provide the care, tenderness, and comfort to keep this thing alive, because I couldn’t keep my father alive.

Yes, that’s it.

It’s my way of trying to make up for something that cannot be made up. It’s my way of mourning, but also atoning for not being able to save him. I so badly wanted to save him, and weren’t there ways that I could have tried harder? Maybe, if I tried harder, he’d still be here.

You see, there is a memory that haunts me. That last night my father spent in this realm, I just knew something was off. I had left the hospital where my father was, and his condition didn’t sit right with me. They told me this was all a part of the alcohol withdrawal process, and that everything would be fine. I couldn’t shake the feeling, so I went back to the hospital even though it was past visiting hours. I begged the security guard to let me up, and reluctantly, he did. But when I got to my dad’s unit, the doors were locked and the bell was broken. I called the hospital operator, who rang the unit for me but couldn’t get an answer from anyone working the floor. She came back on the line and said, “Sweetie, he’ll be fine. Get some rest. You can come back as early as 5am.” I felt defeated. But then, through the glass of the security doors, I saw a nurse turn into the hall. She was walking hurriedly with a clipboard, walking away from me. I went to knock…

But I didn’t. I simply watched her walk away. I silently stared, and I didn’t even try to get her attention. Why, after all of those efforts to get to him, did I not knock? Was it my fear of being scolded for entering after visiting hours? Was it that I didn’t want to bother anyone? But I had already gone so far, so why didn’t I just knock? Why didn’t I start pounding on the doors, screaming, “LET ME IN, MY DAD NEEDS ME!”

My father lay alone in that room until a few hours later he was transferred to the ICU, where we would say our final goodbyes.

I try to soothe myself, saying that nothing would have changed, that it wouldn’t have mattered. And another part of me recants, because if I had just gotten past those doors, at least my dad would have known I was there. At least I could have held his hand, kissed his forehead. Remind him how loved he was.

So now, when this memory apparates, I go to the garden and I try. I try to keep it alive, to quiet the memories, to build something bigger than me, and to feel something grand. And when I sit back and look at all the work, I feel some peace and pride.

There is a wind chime hanging outside the garden gate that my aunt gave me in honor of my dad. When the wind blows, it makes a soft, perfect chime. I reply, “Hi dad.”