“I shall never speak her name again for she never made it to the garden of Dovehill,” said the young man at his 38-year-old wife's funeral.

***

“Please, grandfather, tell me about my grandmother,” said the man’s young grandson, Thomas.

“Your grandmother was a lovely young woman. We married just days after we met. You see, we were both on our own at that point, our parents far from where we were. We were going out that day. Just the two of us were going to her dream garden, the garden of Dovehill. But she never made it,” said the old man.

“What happened, grandfather?” asked Thomas.

“We had just gotten to the far side of the meadow when I looked back to see her. She especially smiled at me. We had just crossed the creek and came into the woods when I looked back to see her fall to the ground. I carried her home and got the doctor, but by the time he had come, it was too late for him to do anything about it. She had died, and so every year we went up to the garden downhill where she was buried and planted a new rose bush.

“When are you doing the ritual this year?” asked Thomas.

“I’m getting older and I don’t think I can cross the creek again this year, so it’s up to you and your aunties to do the ritual,” said the old man. Certainly! Here’s a continuation of the journey and the ritual itself:

The journey to Dovehill was always a solemn one, filled with memories and a sense of duty. Now a young man, Thomas remembered the stories his grandfather had told him about the meadow, creek, and woods. Each step was a step back in time, to the day when his grandmother smiled her last smile.

As Thomas and his aunts prepared for the ritual, they gathered the tools and the rose bush they would plant. The rose bush was a symbol of love and remembrance, a way to honor the life that had been lost too soon.

The path to Dovehill was familiar yet challenging. They crossed the meadow, where the wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze, and approached the creek. The water was cold and clear, reflecting the sky above. Thomas helped his aunts across, steadying them as they navigated the slippery stones.

Once they reached the woods, the air grew cooler, and the sounds of the city faded away. The trees stood tall and silent, witnesses to the many journeys made to this sacred place. Thomas felt a sense of peace as they walked, knowing they were continuing a tradition that meant so much to their family.

Finally, they arrived at the garden of Dovehill. The small plot of land was well-tended, with rows of rose bushes in various stages of bloom. Each bush represented a year of love and remembrance, a testament to the enduring bond between his grandparents.

Thomas and his aunts knelt by the freshly dug hole, and together, they planted the new rose bush. As they worked, they shared stories of his grandmother, her laughter, her kindness, and the way she had touched their lives. The ritual was not just about planting a rose bush; it was about keeping her memory alive and honoring the love that had shaped their family.

When the rose bush was finally in place, they stood back and admired their work. The garden of Dovehill was a beautiful, living tribute to a woman who had been deeply loved. Thomas felt a sense of fulfillment, knowing he had played a part in preserving her legacy.

As they made their way back home, Thomas thought about his grandfather’s words. He knew that one day, it would be his turn to pass on the tradition to the next generation. The journey and the ritual were more than just acts of remembrance; they were a way to keep the family’s love and history alive, year after year.

The end