My father was attached to gardening by birth. One of my earliest memories is following Dad barefoot around in the garden with both hands blackened from digging in the soil. The garden is a wonderland full of possibilities.

As Dad grew older, he still loved gardening. Even when he was diagnosed with cancer, he still planted all sorts of plants. Sometimes, I would come over to visit, and we would walk together in the garden. But then, something changed. Like the weeds that took over his garden, the cancer grew rapidly in Dad. I stayed with Dad twenty-four hours a day and I found myself in all kinds of uncomfortable situations with Dad until I promised to care for the garden.

Though I had heard the words of the doctor, what really made me believe that Dad was dying was the state of his garden. That year, he only planted tomatoes. Too tired to weed them, he simply tied them with strong strings to the fence and let them be. It made me sad to see them ignored, so I would come over and water them once in a while, and remove the weeds. I still remember the day I picked the last tomato from the vine(藤). That day was one of the saddest I had ever experienced in my life.

Three years ago, I decided to plant my own garden. I decided I would start out with just a few tomatoes. That morning when I moved to the garden, something caught the corner of my eyes and I had to smile. It was my eight-year-old son Nathan, standing barefoot in the soil, happily playing in the soil.

I know a lot about gardening because of my grandparents. My grandfather Ya Ya loved gardening. After his arrival in Canada, Ya Ya opened a small restaurant while my grandmother, Yang Yang, didn’t speak any English.

Ya Ya took great pride in growing snap peas (甜荷兰豆), carrots, which he used in home cooking. The entire backyard was devoted to his plants.

When Ya Ya died, my grandmother pulled up most of the remaining plants. Still only a child, I asked my cousin why Yang Yang had dug up Ya Ya’s plants. She told me that the garden reminded Yang Yang of my grandfather’s absence.

Years passed, and my father moved Yang Yang to be closer to family, which meant taking her away from her home and from the remains of the garden. Shortly after the move, she telephoned my father, and I could hear her tearfully shouting in Chinese, asking why he had moved her so far away from her life.

Gradually, Yang Yang became accustomed to the new house. One evening, she gestured (用动作示意) for me to the backyard. There, in a small patch (块) of soil, was a row of Chinese spinach (菠菜). She was gardening at 92.

I now have a house and family of my own. I often think back to Ya Ya’s garden. And I think about how Yang Yang started over again, tending (照料) to new greenery in a new city, far from her first home in Canada, and even farther from China.

We all must start somewhere, and sometimes we must start again. And sometimes, starting again simply involves (包含) allowing new roots to grow.