I find a spot on one side of the garden and wait for her. I know she is small and frail looking like a feverish little girl. I know she is thin and anything can blow her away unexpectedly: her children's laughter, Connie Francis, other people's pain, love, and the song A Whiter Shade of Pale. I know she is scattered here where many years ago her children offered her ashes to the wind.
A visitor left a bouquet of wild urchins on a bench. I devote my attention to one flower in particular. My husband's mother is now a lavender urchin.
"I would have loved you," I tell her.
A kinder breeze which seems to come all the way from the Gleniffer Braes brushes past my face. A caress maybe. I think it is her way to tell me, "I would have loved you too."