DEMENTIA CARE: FLOWERS AS MEMORIES.

Gardening is for people who like gardening. Which is why the garden is as plant-free as I can make it.

   I'm dealing with the legacy of a garden, though. The place is dotted with flowers that bloom at slightly different times of year. The guiding hand, creating that effect in the past, is now arthritic and belongs to a woman struggling with memory.
   It's left to me to preserve the garden as a method of saving memory. There's a little weeding. And there's a spot of decision-making.
   A flower invades from a few doors along, and I allow the plant to flourish. I encourage its spread. If lucky, we'll see the interloper develop into a border plant, clinging to the thin veil of soil along the edge of the obligatory gravel chips.

   There's a battle to fight with a tree. I can't let it tower over me. But it is a regular fixture, and amuses the sufferer. Dementia can't dent the notion...
   That's my tree. Blowing in the wind.
   I'm the one who goes out and trims branches. It's left to my wind-blown self to use guide-lines and staking to make the tree safer. If it's really up to me, I know I'm taking that tree down.
   But it isn't really up to me. The back garden is dotted with flowers. That tree adds to the visual properties. It's a talking-point. Not much of a talking -point. But an important one, for any person plagued with dementia.

   Flowers indicate seasons to someone who perceives only the frantic yet leisurely blur of days. Any drastic change in the weather is welcome. The same goes for developments in the garden's greenery.
   Plants stand in as replicas of memories, bringing back ideas from other seasons in other years. Jumbled, yes. But a hazy memory of a half-forgotten summer is better than no memory at all...
   If she misremembers who gave her the cutting for that plant, at least she remembers someone gave her the cutting for that plant.
   Heavy rain falls all day and night, and next morning petals are scattered on the gravel. They are still petals. Memories of the plants they once were. Cast aside, by the passage of time.
   I drop a few weeds in the recycling bin. It's my job to dispose of the bad memories, and strive to keep the good stuff fresh as long as I can.