Wiping the sweat from my face, grabbing a Coke, I sit down at the table, wincing at the pain in my shoulder. "You shouldn't be doing that, you know, Allie," Norman says, looking sideways at me. Knowing the comment will rile me, he turns to the sink to wash his hands. "I can't just stop doing this just because my shoulder hurts, Norman," I reply as always, angry at the chronic injury that keeps me from many activities, angry at the doctor who refuses to realize I cannot allow this pain, this injury, to hamper my daily activities and life with my living boys.

The boys come in, asking when I am going to start again. "Now," I answer, getting up, forcing a smile. We are planting a large garden this year, or the beginnings of one. A prior owner had filled a large 50-foot section in the backyard with prickly juniper and pokey Mugho pines, probably for ease of care. But they were taking up way too much room and were not safe for rambunctious boys to play near.

Walking to the garden, we look at the mess in dismay. So much dirt, with teensy plants sticking up here and there. It's hard for the boys to imagine what it will look like in a year or two. An impatien for Tricia is going to go in that spot, I mused; and a carnation for another child over there. Larskpur and hollyhocks, pansies and forget-me-nots, all planted in memory of a child who has died. A living, growing thing is such a beautiful tribute to those of us who have lost so very dearly, at the death of our children. Our children who cannot grow, cannot flourish, cannot take their place in the world, to nurture another as has been done since time began.

When Ethan died we lost so much more than just that monumental thing, our son. We lost our financial future; we lost our innocence; we lost our ability to take even the slightest thing for granted. Knowing that I too could die, or my other children, at any moment, I cherish every second with them; every breath, every smile, every owie.

Tired of death, tired of the deep chronic sorrow we live with daily, I decided to make a place of life for our kids. Not large by any means, but adequate for our children. No garden could hold the flowers needed to mark the death of each child; no garden anywhere is big enough. But here, this garden, is a start.

The boys do not know it is a memorial garden; they have no need to know who the flowers are for, or in whose name I plant them. They only need to know that flowers grow, and live, and thrive, to feed bees and birds and other buzzy things that whizz past their ears. They know enough of death, these boys, too much.

"Mom, here's the gladyo's," Eliott says, breaking my reverie. Handing me a sack of mixed-color gladiola bulbs, he looks at me, eager to dig in the dirt, to find worms and bugs while mommy tenderly places each seed, hoping that this one--for that child or for that child--will grow tall and strong as that child no longer can, flourishing and filling its space with color and light, fulfilling the purpose it was meant to have; to be a flower