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288 pages, Hardcover
First published March 25, 2025
On the walk to the café, passing under the century-old plane trees, their withered leaves drift and fall around me like papery hands, or airborne starfish. The breeze tumbles them along the road with a scraping sound, a seasonal death rattle. Autumn is a kind of death cleaning, a process of making way for rest and regrowth.
Sadness is still a weight in my chest. I sense that people expect me to be getting over it. I see them thinking that my mother was ninety-five, a good innings, and I know I was lucky to have her in my life for so long. But what they don't seem to understand is that you're never ready to say goodbye to the very few people you truly love. (Extract from my garden journal. March 2021, p.71)
Already I plan a Garden of Lost Flowers, to give sanctuary to such beauties as Medusagyne oppositifolia, a jellyfish tree endemic to the island of Mahé in the Seychelles, and Viola cryana, the cry violet, or cry pansy, an extinct plant species that was once endemic to Yonne [in France]. The Garden Where Nothing Is Forgotten and All Is Forgiven must, I think, be a blue garden, though one in which the purple-blues will be admissible. (p.183)