07/23/2025
When my grandma passed away, I inherited this old wire dress form she used to sew with. It was rusty, a little bent, and honestly I had no clue what to do with it. But I couldnāt bring myself to toss it. She used to make all our dresses on itāEaster, school recitals, even my momās wedding gown. It felt like a piece of her, standing there quietly in the corner of our shed.
Last summer, on a bit of a whim, I dragged it into the garden and planted a clematis vine at its base. I didnāt have a real planājust this ache to make something beautiful out of something we both loved. The vines grew slowly at first, but by mid-July, they started to bloom. The flowers spilled across the frame like a gown she mightāve designed herselfābold, purple, delicate, proud.
I surrounded it with little white alyssum, pink dianthus, and feverfew, the kinds of flowers she always had in jam jars on her kitchen table. I even kept one of her old enamel basins nearby, filled with garden twine and scissors, like she might step out to tie up a rose.
Now, this isnāt just a trellis. Itās her. Itās memories stitched into petals. Itās the way grief softens when you give it somewhere to bloom. And every time I walk past it, I swear I feel her smiling.
Thank you Gardenizi for such a meaningful challenge, may God bless you.
