Six years after the death of her mother, Lulah Ellender celebrates their shared love of gardening and the ever-changing place that most gives her hope
Last autumn my sister rang me in tears. Her partner had inadvertently dug up a patch of primroses in their garden. Why this reaction to an innocent gardening mistake? Because these primroses came from our late mother’s garden. My sister, brother and I had carefully transplanted a few of her beloved yellow Primula vulgaris to each of our gardens, hoping to keep something of her alive; they were her favourite flower. Every time I see them begin to flower in the shady patch opposite my kitchen window, I remember her joy at their springtime blooms.
My mother died from cancer nearly six years ago. While the initial shock and sharpness of the loss has ebbed, I am still learning to live with the gap she has left in the world. We were close and, among other things, shared a love of gardening. When she came to stay she would bring muddy carrier bags full of slug-nibbled lettuce, handfuls of chard or surprisingly small leeks. We would set about pruning or weeding together, talking mostly, but also happily working in silence.
