My Memory Box Has Roots

Maybe yours does too.

Photo of my dad on the allotment by Sabrina Ahmed

Last week I found myself scrolling through a grief support forum.

Lit candles. Memory boxes. Photo collages. Beautiful, meaningful rituals people created to remember their loved ones.

And I felt like a fraud.

I don’t do any of that for my dad.

I read the messages and replies from people who'd also lost a parent.

Comforting each other. Sharing the lovely things they did to keep those precious memories alive.

My heart sank as I shuffled around the house, feeling like the worst daughter.

---

I stood at the kitchen window making a coffee, steam coming off the mug, and spotted the camellia planted in one of the back beds.

Dad bought a couple of plants for me 5 years ago. Right after I moved in.

This one is yet to bloom, but the one in the front has pink floppy flowers every spring.

He was so excited about this bigger garden after I eventually escaped my cramped flat during COVID.

“Look what we can do here with this extra space,” he'd say, already planning.

I love watching those camellia grow. Seeing the blooms each season.

I walked to the sitting room window and looked at the small magnolia out the front.

The one we planted together, excited to see it take root.

Next to the rhododendron he got me with the gorgeous red flowers that distract as you walk to the front door.

“They'll be the first thing people see.“

And I've finally planted that stubborn bay tree, hauled from my parents’ courtyard after years of nagging.

But he never got to see that because I took too long.

Hang on.

My heart eased as it clicked.

I do have a memory box.

It’s just...alive.

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Perhaps you're reading this and thinking about your own memory box. Of lack of one.

Perhaps you've scrolled those same grief forums too, looking for ideas or feeling like you're doing it all wrong.

Like you needed something more official - lighting candles or creating a photo collage.

But here's what I realised whilst waiting for my mug of coffee to cool down:

• Some people light candles. I water plants.

• Some people arrange photos in memory boxes. I put fertiliser into the soil.

• Some people visit graves on anniversaries. I sit in my office, gazing at the plants he chose, growing with each season.

Those other rituals aren't wrong. They're just not mine for how I remember dad.

My dad loved gardening. We bonded over it. Working on his allotment, getting our hands dirty.

Planning and trying crops, or choosing plants for the green spaces we had.

I used to pick up seeds for him to try whenever I spotted them.

So it made sense this was how I remembered him. Not through a traditional memory box per se, but with a living space.

Growing. Changing with each passing year.

And grief shifts like the garden through the seasons.

Some days it's like the camellia blooming bright and pink on a spring morning.

Some days it's like the magnolia that's lost all its leaves, waiting for warmer winds.

Just like how I remember him now.

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You might be reading this and remembering your own memory box.

Or wondering if you should have one.

Maybe yours doesn't look like candles or photos either.

Maybe it's a playlist. A recipe you make on hard days or anniversaries.

A bench you sit on to quietly contemplate. A route you cycle along.

Whatever it is, it's bloody brilliant.

This morning I stood at the kitchen window, fresh coffee in hand, looking at the camellia in the back bed under the crisp autumn sky.

I don't have a photo collage. I don't light candles.

But I have this garden. These living, growing memories with plants that tell a story and roots still establishing.

It's not the memory box those forum people have.

It's mine.

And Dad would love it.

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P.S. What's your way of remembering a lost parent or loved one? How do you keep it alive?