She looked so small in the hospital bed—quiet, distant. I wasn’t sure she even recognized me… until she said, “Chickpea.” Her old nickname for me. In that moment, all the years melted away.
Before I left, she whispered, “Next time, bring the lemon cookies.” Our special recipe—hers. I hadn’t made them in years, but I baked a batch the next day, following her handwritten notes.
When I brought them to her, she smiled. “You remembered,” she said, taking a bite like it was the best thing in the world.
We talked briefly about her favorite garden, and she said softly, “I’m not afraid. Just remember what I taught you—about life, love, and growing things.”
A week later, she passed. Afterward, I found a letter tucked in her garden book: Take time for what matters. Family. Love. And don’t forget—you can grow something beautiful, too.
Now I live by those words. I slow down. I show up. I bake the cookies. Because life, like a garden, needs care. And love grows where we tend it.
