The patch of wild violets growing just outside my front door reminds me of a neighbor friend who gave me the first of the plants. She was a retired educator who enjoyed baking, gardening, traveling, and storytelling. She wasn’t perfect, but she was thoughtful, joyful, and grounded in what matters, and she died nearly two years ago; cancer, by the way, can fuck right off.
I think of my friend, when I see the violet patch in bloom. And so the plants have become keys to my memories of her. Not some symbolic, abstract violets, but these particular plants are the keys to those memories, whose roots I have watered and whose seeds I have continued spreading.
I don’t really wish for my friend’s spirit to rest in peace. Instead I wish for it to continue creating and delighting those of us who remain. I wish for those wild violet seeds find their place or make one.