Dear Esther

Dear Esther,

It’s been three years since you went to be with Jesus. Your death day always coincides with my birthday and so thoughts of you come in like the waves; sometimes gentle sometimes crashing, but steadily rolling in. For you were always great at making a birthday special, and it makes me sad to think I’ll never share this day with you again. The passing of time is a curious thing. Some of life's moments are lived with such heightened senses that their unique, atypical nature makes for an indelible mark on ones psyche. Recalling the experience seems like it only happened yesterday. I can’t quite believe it’s been three years and yet in chronicling the many life events that fill the space between, it reminds me of how much life has happened, and so much of life has been lovely.

When you died I felt like the earth had just caved in on itself, and I had been sucked down into its black centre. I struggled for a long time to even want to claw my way back into the light, for it somehow felt disloyal to even start thinking about moving out of the darkness. It was as if my moving towards light meant letting go of you; losing you all over again. So it was a distorted consolation to dwell in the land of sorrow and heartbreak. My only true comfort was knowing that you were with Jesus, free from suffering and made perfect and whole. Heaven being the perfect place of peace and rest meant I wanted to be there too, I questioned what on earth was the point of remaining in this life. Those questions don’t sound like me at all; I’ve never thought like that before. Rather than be scared of asking this, I set about doing day by day what I believed to be the point of this life - loving God and loving others.

While reaching out to others in love seems like the hardest thing to do when you are grieving; having no capacity to give. It is this connection with others that has helped me move outside myself and has enabled me to rediscover the joy of the life we are given to live. There is vulnerability in loving much, but it is so worth it. I must admit I sometimes want to cling onto my girls; clinging because I’m afraid of losing them too. Sometimes when they are together and laughing at each other jokes and sharing their gossip as only sisters do best I ache for you being here. There is so much I wish I could tell you, so much to laugh about, to rage about, to cry about and to dream about. The bond between sisters is so unique and special.

Can I tell you about the garden I’ve created for you. It has been a therapeutic project of mine, and I know you would love it. There is nothing more relaxing than sitting down, with warm morning sun on my face and staring out in complete contentedness looking at the garden I’ve created in memory of you. Flowers make me smile. You once gave me dahlias for my birthday, so I have created a garden with a vista of your dahlias. Their pretty faces peek with cheeky confidence above the white picket fence that encloses their space. I decided to purchase a park bench and place on it a plaque with your name and the dates that you graced this world. From it’s vantage point I have planted many flowers that remind me of you. Sitting next to the dahlias that you gifted me are ones from your own garden. Your mother-in-law kindly gave me your glorious Cafe au Lait dinner plate dahlias. They radiate elegance. Dahlias will always be for me a reminder of you.

Soon after you passed away, women in my bible study group gifted me a rose bush to plant in your memory, it’s called the sisters rose. Every summer it flowers a delicate blossom that looks like it’s been subtly watercolored pink and white, and planted by its side is your daughters rose that Mum gifted you for her birth. It came to be in my garden as your family will soon move from their home, and Mum couldn’t bear the thought of it becoming lost in a rental garden. It’s symbolic that her rose and yours will forever be planted together. These are the flowers that I can gaze out upon as I drink my morning coffee, but closer to your bench I’ve planted in pots colourful Kalanchoe. I gave you one for a birthday which was positioned on your front porch. I’ve always liked their vibrant colours and ever green leaves. So I’ve collected three. You know how much I love colour!

The week after you died, our Auntie Margaret died in Canberra. Going up for her funeral so quickly on the heels of your own was overwhelming. It happened to coincide with the end of Floriade; the annual flower festival. On it’s final day they had something called the Great Big Dig. It’s where the public can come and dig up the flower displays, filling up a bag for $5. Me and Mum went together, seeing the opportunity as cathartic and bonding. We dug up a lot of beautiful blue iris bulbs, which I have now scattered under the fruit trees that surround my memory garden. I love how flowers are so reliably seasonal, and so every year around the time of your anniversary, these iris’ bloom, striking a bold pose in your memory.

To finish off the garden is a beautiful rusted iron heart, with a wren in its centre. No garden is complete without some garden art. Every year Mum and I go to the Melbourne Garden Show, something which the three of us did for so many years. This tradition is now always tinged with sadness that you aren’t there to enjoy it with us. However, we bought matching hearts the first year you were gone. It takes its pride of place amongst the kalanchoe.

How I wish I could share a cuppa and a big long chat with you on my garden bench, but I like to think you have your own in heaven and you can look down and see me in mine.

Love you Esther.

PS: I successfully grew your favourite flower, the Peony. It’s finicky and delicate, and not really suited to a Melbourne warm winter, however I have managed to grow one bloom. Given its notoriously difficult nature, I knew you would be proud.

PPS: Your rhubarb is spectacular. It gives me year round produce for which I’m eternally grateful.