When I was a child, my back door opened to a new world that filled my eyes with wonder and my head with daydreams.  It was a space for dramatic plays starring the garden statues, staged under the huge elm tree.  A soft and grassy playground for leaping through sprinklers, pink swimsuit ruffles soaked and drooping.  My backyard gave me summer friends and flowers and morning promises of what each new day might bring.  It was a place where baby dolls became Barbie dolls and dreams of a grown-up life that would come all too soon.

It was a little green world of firsts and lasts:  First birthday party, first kiss.  Last day of school … and last day with my father.

This yard was his kingdom.  It was the balmy California antidote to a chilly Bronx Depression.  Far from the restless streets of New York, he made his own mid-century Shangri-La, full of golden bamboo and crimson camellias.  Young fruit trees brought him oranges and figs while sweet olive and jasmine thrived beneath windows, and perfume filled the house.  My father created a private and peaceful tropical haven where he could love his wife and raise his little girl and where for over forty years, he cherished each stolen moment, until there were no more.

I still miss him.

And in its own wild way, the garden mourned his loss.  Destined for firewood, the mighty elm faltered, elderly and spent.  The peach tree offered one last golden harvest and soon it, too, was gone.  Now, so long orphaned, the aging bird of paradise gives up its struggle with the ivy, and the rye no longer battles the crabgrass.

In the chilly winters, outside the dusty porch screen lies a still and slumbering Eden.  But deep within this timeworn arbor, far beneath the roots and the sand and the clay, the rhythm of a strong old heart keeps time.  For though gardens may sleep, they never forget, and they repay the life they’ve been given tenfold.

With each new spring, the garden wakes, and through its living world Dad speaks to me once more.  Vintage roses reappear and climb to the sky.  Incense of old jasmine stirs the night air.  The faithful orange opens its heady blooms, and for yet another season, their nectar will tempt the honeybees.  For yet another summer, new finches and doves will fledge.  In this suburban wilderness, countless creatures have found a home, and still more tiny lives will always find green shelter and haven.

And so will I.

For I am the lucky guardian of Dad’s ancient realm.  And though its restless flora and fauna transform with each passing year, for me, the most important essentials forever remain:   Each day, the California sun still makes its morning promise; and my father’s love, in every stem, leaf, and bud, still rules this little kingdom beyond my back door.