#409: SPOTLIGHT: Jaime Posa
#409: Jaime Posa
December 3, 2024
A Backbeat of Community
Today's spotlight is a little different than usual as it does not come with a specific question. However, Jaime's piece reminds me of Dorie's spotlight from a couple months back, which sparked a thoughtful conversation over a Zoom call with many of you around gardening -- both in the literal and figurative sense. In other words, nurturing both plants as well as relationships, and what that looks and feels like. My sister Jaime has written many beautiful tributes to our dad since we lost him eight years ago but this one, in particular, stands out to me. Thank you, Jaime, for these heartfelt reflections. It often feels as though written words, blooming flowers, and the connections to those we've lost are all similar in that they have the potential to last forever.
- Amanda
From Jaime:
This year’s missing you looked like irises, hostas, and pulling garlic mustard. I never would have known when I was seven that weeding with you would become a core memory. I never would have known that years and years later, when you’d fly from this Earth on wheels and on wings, and leave me to learn how to parent without you, that I would remember the time you transplanted all the flowering things from Grandma's tiny Queens apartment patio to your home in Westchester. I often curse the suburbs, but when I go back to my childhood home and see your hostas, grandmas hostas, forming the perimeter of your hands' hard work year after year, I remember how this place was one of your greatest achievements.
I don’t just see the flowers bloom, I see your rough hands covered in dirt. I see your beads of sweat beside mine as I complain and ask how much longer I have to weed. Before your Italian explosion of impatience, (one I understand more now ) you kneel beside me and show me the bulbs. Show me how to separate one from the others and place it upright in the hole created from the garlic mustards removal. A few months ago I showed my daughter how we can eat garlic mustard. Last week, when my 5 year old asked me about death, I told her that this is how parts of people stay alive forever. For us it’s the garden. I tell her how I can always visit grandpa there. These are his hostas. His irises. And now you have me here too when you eat the garlic mustard, the wood sorrel, the nasturtium. Mid August is always another meeting place for us, your birthday…and truthfully it feels good this year to have an excuse to have a good cry for missing you, which doesn’t happen as regularly as it did year one. 8 years now. Thanks for doing things with me Dad. Even the things I complained about. It’s a way to continue doing things together, even though I’m the only one with dirty hands now.
I suspect Jaime would love all direct responses from you. I find it incredibly encouraging when I hear from any of you after I share my thoughts. It is powerful for me. I assume many others have a similar experience. So here is Jaime's email… pip