We sold our home last week. It was an ordinary transaction—houses change hands all the time, and we hadn’t lived there for several years. When we relocated to the suburbs, we opted to rent it out rather than navigate the chaotic post-bubble real estate market. For the past six years, our property has been home to various young renters.
While I appreciated having good tenants, a significant part of me felt a mix of unease and sadness about closing this chapter. I even contemplated making the two-hour round trip back to the city—not to reminisce about the house, but to bid farewell to the small patch of soil in front of it.
Nearly seven years ago, we planted a tall hibiscus right in the center of that little mound. Eager to add some vibrancy to our surroundings, we invested in numerous gardening tools and colorful plants. We filled large planters with a riot of yellow, orange, and red blooms we couldn’t even name. We cultivated tomatoes along the side of the house and surrounded the hibiscus with a multitude of vibrant impatiens. We told ourselves it was merely a gardening effort, but deep down, we understood it was a way to grieve.
Just a week earlier, we had sat in silence at the ultrasound appointment, staring at the still screen. There was no familiar heartbeat, only static and the technician’s measured breathing. Shortly after, I walked into the hospital carrying a lifeless fetus, leaving with a profound emptiness in my heart.
As my husband, Jake, tended to the garden under the blazing sun, I stood back, hoping my sadness could be buried along with the roots. Unbeknownst to us, the act of planting and pruning had transformed into a sort of memorial, with the hibiscus serving as a headstone.
I hoped that with the soil compacted, we could simply move forward. Yet the months that followed turned into some of the darkest of my life. With the economy in turmoil, Jake became overwhelmed with work stress. I spiraled into a cycle of despair, alternating between fierce anger at the world and a profound emptiness I had never known. My days revolved around fertility treatments and the endless cycle of pregnancy tests, but every time I passed that hibiscus, a fleeting sense of raw peace washed over me.
A year later, we moved, and the plant ultimately perished. Honestly, it likely wouldn’t have survived even if we had remained there; the soil was rocky, the sunlight insufficient, and my gardening skills left much to be desired.
That house held countless memories—bringing my eldest son home from the hospital on a chilly October day, cozy Saturday night dinners in our snug kitchen, and dancing in our small living room. Yet, amidst all those cherished moments, the hibiscus and the wood chips that replaced it stood out the most. They embodied a complex mix of emotions that remains with me.
Although that plant memorialized our grief, it eventually became a symbol of our strength and resilience. Through our pain, Jake and I forged an unbreakable bond, and from the remnants of that flower, a newfound love and appreciation blossomed. From those roots emerged an unwavering hope and a faith that defied explanation.
A few years back, while tidying up the yard, I noticed a semicircle of bricks still encircling where the flower had once thrived. I paused, whispered a farewell to our little angel, and expressed gratitude for our younger son, who arrived a couple of years after that dark period. I didn’t linger long, but I took a moment to remember, acknowledge, and then move forward.
As I awaited the final confirmation of the sale from our lawyer, I couldn’t shake the thoughts of that hibiscus, the bricks around it, the buried sorrow, and the hope that once thrived there. It puzzled me. I rarely reflect on the miscarriage or that flower anymore, so why was I feeling so conflicted? Why did saying goodbye to something emblematic of such a painful time evoke fresh grief?
None of this made sense. Society often minimizes the grief associated with miscarriage; it’s a topic we seldom discuss or honor. “It wasn’t meant to be,” some well-meaning folks say. “It wasn’t a healthy fetus,” doctors explain. Others optimistically insist, “It will happen when the time is right.”
Yet, regardless of the reasons that rationalize a miscarriage, I experienced an undeniable and profound sense of loss at that time. Perhaps the essence of human emotions—love, grief, hope, mercy, faith, and fear—is laced with a mysterious, almost illogical quality. This intricacy is what makes our existence beautiful, complex, and sometimes difficult to comprehend.
We leave fragments of ourselves scattered across various places, and my grief remains in the soil at that house on Nelson Street. But I also carry pieces with me. From that patch of dirt, I took away hope, resilience, courage, and gratitude.
Ultimately, maybe what matters most isn’t what we leave behind but what we carry forward with us.
Farewell, house on Nelson Street. Farewell, once-vibrant flower and the now-empty soil. Goodbye. But, dear angel, you will forever be in my heart.
This post was originally featured on my blog.
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Summary:
In reflecting on the sale of her old house, Emily Harper recounts the deep emotional ties she formed with a hibiscus plant planted during a time of grief following a miscarriage. While the plant served as a memorial for their lost child, it ultimately became a symbol of the couple’s resilience and hope. As she navigates the bittersweet farewell to their former home, she contemplates how grief and love intertwine in the human experience, highlighting the importance of what we carry forward rather than what we leave behind.