Step 1. Procure the plant(s)

When buying a plant, buying a healthy one is extremely important.
Make sure there is little to no dead foliage.
Make sure there’s substantial new growth.
A plant with two open blooms and five new closed buds is better than a flower with seven open blooms.

The red wagon behind me is loud and needs to be oiled. The wheels stick and the rocky ground of the
greenhouse makes the wagon shake. I look regretfully at the plants settled inside it. I know I’d hate a ride
like that. Currently the wagon holds all different shades of red, yellow, and orange shasta daisies. They’re
perennials, so they only live for one season, which means I have to replant them each year. They’re my
Mother’s favorite. One year, I was probably around seven, a shasta daisy popped up in my Mother’s
hydrangea bush. It was pure white with a deep blue center. She’s been obsessed with them ever since. The
picture she took of it is still my Grandmother’s contact picture in her phone. Some of these daisies are for
home. But three purple ones are for the graves.

I trudge along behind my Grandmother as she makes her way up and down the aisles of plants. She’s
limping slightly and I try to keep one hand free in case she falls backwards. Her ankles have been bothering
her for years. A shopping cart would be better for her to lean on. But they don’t have those here. My Mother
is off somewhere looking for more plants for our house. My Grandmother is looking for flowers for her flower
box. They’ll all be dead before summer is over.

Each year it’s a new variety of flower but the set up is always the same. We’ll pick six flowers, there will be
two of each color and one color always has to be white. Then we’ll find a filler plant. My Grandmother used
to get three grassy plants – typically that reach up towards the sky past the flowers. But I’ve swayed her to
get more of a leafy filler that the flowers can see over. It’s a new unnamed type every year but we always
get three. That’s nine plants total for this small brick flower box. It’s too many. I’ve told her it’s too many. She
doesn’t seem to care.

Step 2. Find a spot for the plant(s)

This step all depends on the plant.
However much light they need will decide where they should be planted.
Soil conditions for the roots of the plant will also vary.
Take a look at that little card that comes with the plant to know what conditions the plant needs.

This cemetery is bigger than the one I live in front of. It seems less personal to me. I’d never be able to
remember where my loved one is buried in here. I’d get lost among the stones. But my Grandmother drives
her SUV over the grass roads with a memory that’s unable to forget. We park closest to my Nanny. I hop
out of the car and pop the trunk. The plants are piled high in multiple boxes. One box for here, one box for
my Grandmother’s, one box for home, for my Mother. The boxes are a thick cardboard so they can support
all sorts of heavy plants. The daisies for here are light and barely take up half a box. I grab the box with the
purple daisies from underneath and grimace at the wetness of the cardboard on my bare hands. I apologize
for what I’m going to do to these poor daisies. I grab the small trowel, its wooden handle stained by dirt.
Someone used this before I did. I can’t imagine my Mother or Grandmother ever using it.

My Mother grabs the watering can and walks to the spigot just a few feet from Nanny’s stone. This is one
thing I wish I could take back to my cemetery. It’s easier to care for your loved ones’ flowers with water so
close. I walk over to the stone and place the box of flowers down. Each grave I’ll plant for today has stone
pots built on the sides. They were made with the intention for flowers to be there. There’s even a drainage
hole in the bottom of the pots in case of overwatering. I kneel down and start to work. My Mother sets the
now full watering can next to me.

Step 3. Dig a hole

The hole should be about an inch deeper than the pot your plant is in.
This way the stem is stable in its new exposed environment.
Always water the hole before you place the plant into it.
This way the roots will take to the new dirt easier.

I silently apologize to the flowers again as I see the state of the dirt. It’s gray and dry. No matter how much
water I add it doesn’t seem to get any wetter. This soil is dead. There’s nothing left in it, nothing but the dead
remnants of last year’s flowers. I chop the dead stalks and work them into the dirt. Maybe the stalks will
return nutrients back into the soil.

I’ve told my Grandmother the soil is dead. I tell her again that this soil will kill these flowers. She tells me it
doesn’t matter. So I plant them anyway. My Mother and Grandmother stand behind me and tell stories about
Nanny. She died when I was eight months old. My Mother slept over at Nanny’s every weekend until she got
her first job. Nanny used to be a whiz at rummy. My Mother would try to read Nanny’s cards in the reflection
of her glasses. I gently work the plastic cup the flowers come in so the roots won’t rip. I flip the cup upside
down and weave the stem through my fingers. This way I’m supporting the roots as they fall but not crushing
any growth. Now my Mother and Grandmother are talking about poker and whiskey behind me.

I gently set the flower into the hole I’ve dug. I place dirt around it until it’s softly packed in the pot. If I pack
it too tightly the roots won’t be able to move outwards. I have to pack it just right. I like to think of it as a
hug. The dirt that’s now living under my nails will bother me the whole ride home. It will rub uncomfortably
against my skin and remind me it’s there every time I move. All I want to do is wash my hands.

Step 4. Water them

Watering the plant in its new home will set it up for a healthy life.
This is another way for the roots to spread.
This will allow the dirt to mix in the pot.
Both of these will ease the shock for the plant of moving into new soil.

I sit on my knees for a moment as I put the watering can down. It’s broken and almost unusable. Most of
the water comes out of the sides of the spout and lands on my knees rather than the plant. The water is
cold on my skin. My Mother and Grandmother have moved on to talking about movies, specifically The
Wizard of Oz. It’s my Mother’s favorite. It was Nanny’s favorite. The Cowardly Lion scared me as a kid but I
don’t tell either of them.

We move on to two graves a few rows over. I carry the box with the shasta dasies. It’s like their own funeral
march. This will be the first and last time they’re watered. I kneel down at the graves and get to work. I don’t
know the names on the stones. I don’t read them. I know they must be Friebels, as they’re related to my
Grandmother. But I never met these ones. I don’t want to pretend I know them. It wouldn’t be fair to my
Mother and Grandmother.

I repeat the same steps as earlier. My Mother and Grandmother talk about more memories though I end up
tuning these ones out. My focus is on the dead dirt and the stone in front of me. Lichen has started to form
inside the names on the stone. Eventually it’ll take over the stone and the name will be unreadable. There’s a
lot of stones like that in my cemetery. The stones look almost smooth and the grass around them becomes
overgrown and tall. But for now these stones get fresh flowers and have only a hint of weathering. Once my
Mother and Grandmother are done paying their respects and the flowers look pretty for their own funerals,
we leave.

Step 5. Admire them

Scientists think plants respond well to happy tones of voices.
I always compliment them as I water them.
They grow fuller and faster.
Always talk to your plants.

We pile into my Grandmother’s car and I repeat these steps at my Grandmother’s house. I say more
apologies to the flowers in her little brick flower box. It’s like stuffing live sardines into their little can. I can
almost hear them screaming. I’ll come back each Sunday I don’t have to work at that stiflingly hot pizza
place and watch them wilt away little by little. I’ll be the only one to water them all season.

I then go back home and do it all over again with my Mother. This time we do some landscaping too. I’ll put
some fences up around our front porch, or lay new brick around her little pink cherry tree. Each year is a
new project. Though digging through our packed clay soil is a workout in its own right, my Mother always
finds something more labor intensive for us to do. I do the work and she watches. We like it like that. These
plants may have more of a life. Some of them are her shasta daisies. They’ll be dead by next year. But others
are annual plants. If we do this right, they’ll come back.

Once the daisies are in the ground my Mother waters them. She’ll tell me each time she’s watered them
throughout the week. The weeks I’m not home she’ll forget. I know because when I come back from college
they’re wilted and parched. Their color has faded to brown and their petals look like they’ll crumble in the
next breeze. I want them to keep until next season. I’ve given them all the care I can.