Created With Loving Care

The yard around my parent's home on a corner lot in Santa Barbara, California is a mature and stately oasis of greenery. Assorted tall pine trees watch over the humble house that is surrounded by lawn and a magnificent hedge that is thick and high, and gives the property a sense of privacy. Jade plants are in blossom, an orange tree is laden with fruit, some roses are in their last bloom before spring, and birds are always at the feeder outside the dining room window. It is nice to be able to sit in the gentle mid-winter sun and feel the balmy air amid this blissful scenery—all of it created with loving care.

I imagine that when my mother dies, and my father dies, the property will give a collective sigh of remorse. Especially when my mother passes. For years, she has glorified every blade of grass and tree leaf; and this is how she has talked with God. It is through His creation that she has gone to Him and given praise. I know she has done this every day, and when I have visited her, have seen her go around the house and speak intimately to the roses and trees, saying, “My, aren't you wonderful! How beautiful you are!” My father told me yesterday that the roes were especially spectacular this year. Now, my mother cannot see them, except when they are cut and brought indoors.

Chloris and Dick Boone, a couple months ago.

Both my parents need full time assistance now. I am visiting them from my home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and came on short notice when I heard that they are now getting hospice care. My brother and sister are often at the house, and it seems to take an army to keep the place running. Thankfully, everything is kept clean, and order prevails. But my parents are in steady decline. My mother is in rapid decline and remarked this morning that she is shocked at her sudden deterioration. While my sister and I were getting her up from bed and into a wheelchair, she commented that she thought her rapid downfall was the result of shock, hearing that my father has aggressive lymphoma.

I walked slowly by father's side as he pushed his walker into the street and around the house this morning. He wanted to visit his office, which is attached to the garage. The neighbors waved and said hello, and he smiled and waved back. Another woman, walking her dog stopped to say hello. My parents are well-liked . . . anchors of the community.

Soon, I will have to leave the house on the corner, and I know, when my parents go away at last, the property will sense the loss and grieve at their passing.