Spring: Roses, Gardening and Remembering Mom
Unsinkable Author: George James
When George James lost his mother to suicide, he didn’t expect her memory to take root in the quiet growth of a backyard hedge. In this deeply moving reflection, George invites us into his spring garden—a place where pain, remembrance, and healing intertwine. Through cedars gifted by his mother, rose plants shared on Mother’s Days past, and the tender act of gardening, he uncovers profound truths about love, loss, and the quiet resilience of those who live with mental health struggles. This story is not just about saying goodbye—it's about what still grows.
Summer. The plants are submerged in soil – flourishing, sprouting and brightening our spaces – a reflection of one’s labour of love. As a child, I never enjoyed having to cut the grass, edge the lawn, and trim whatever needed trimming. Then, one day, I had my own garden to care for.
A few years before my mom died by suicide, she gave me a bunch of cedars, from which I created a beautiful evergreen hedge. It would grow to become at least 12 feet tall.
Between her first attempt and when she died, my mom was one of the more than 200 people in Canada who attempt suicide each day. Twenty years later, my mom would become one of 11 Canadians who die by suicide each day.
A few years after her death, my neighbour chopped down part of my hedge. I was more hurt than angry. The thought of my hedge vanishing — being taken — induced a familiar sense of fear and panic that I hadn’t fully processed. I then realized my hedge was more than a hedge. My hedge was a part of me: it was also part of mom.
Many of us recently celebrated Mother’s Day. Many have begun our traditions of spring gardening and planting. Each year, I gifted my mom a rose plant, something she could care for in her garden. It wasn’t until my hedge began disappearing that I really appreciated how impactful every rose plant was: the gift of self-care by offering something of the Earth to care for.
Even as my cedars disappeared, I remember planting them and how my mom helped make it happen. I then began to understand who my mom was, and, despite her death, I knew what made her smile. I knew she had felt joy.
And even though she smiled, I’m afraid my mom — and so many like her — felt alone and unloved, hoping for someone to get it and understand.
In our society and communities of all sizes, there are always those who want help and those who will die by suicide. And for me, it’s okay, because my mom found peace in her eternal garden.
Her death is no one’s fault and no one’s failure.
We need to keep listening, keep talking, and keep caring — just as one does in their garden with nature talking and singing around them. My mom will always be my hedge.
All people hope to be heard. We need to be able to listen, talk, listen some more, hold their hand, have our hands held, and keep listening. We need patience. We need to gently water, face the sun, and offer our hands to the soil and roots, even beneath the surface where it might be cool, damp, dark, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable.
People, like my mom, are not numbers, though they’re among them. They are our loved ones. They are our cedars and roses and, like our plants in the garden, my love for my mom keeps flourishing. Remember, our eyes may only see so far, but our souls can see farther. And, our minds remember both the good and challenging times, just as nature knows winter in spring and spring in winter. The roots my mom helped me plant will always be there for many Mother’s Days and gardening days to come.
“But mum, there’s a tear every time that I
blink
Oh, I’m in pieces, it’s tearing me up, but I
know
A heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been
loved
So, I’ll sing Hallelujah
You were an angel in the shape of my mum
When I fell down, you’d be there holding me
up
Spread your wings as you go
And when God takes you back
He’ll say, “Hallelujah, you’re home.”
— Supermarket Flowers, Ed Sheeran
#MentalHealthisHealth
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