My favorite memories of my Grandmother are of going to grandma’s house on a summer's day; walking through the beautiful gardens that she created from her imagination and sweat and toil. She was a landscape architect, though she didn’t have a degree. Her gardens were magical. I remember walking in through her gate, passing by the trumpet vines. I would pick the red flowers and suck the nectar from the flowers, something grandma showed me I could do. I would walk by the red and black raspberries, and eat the ripe ones. Then by the green grapevines for a handful or two of sun-ripened grapes. Then I would skip and run around under the trees, and through the flowers to the apricot tree, where I would climb its branches. Grandma pruned the tree in such a way that it was more like a living treehouse. If the apricots were in season, I would eat two or three in the tree. After a while of climbing, and listening to the birds, I would climb down and go watch the fish in her pond that she built and sculpted herself. It was peaceful sitting on the benches listening to the babbling waterfall, watching the fish swim around. Soon I would go to the mulberry tree, climb its branches, and gorge myself on as many berries as I could reach. Once my fingers were stained purple from the juices, I would swing on the swing in the playground she created for me. I would swing so high, I was sure I was flying. She taught me how to pump my legs in the indoor swing she made in the house for me, so I could swing near her in the kitchen while she cooked or did dishes. I would climb across the monkey bars and slide down the pole. She kept a hammock under some trees nearby, and I would go lay in it and swing. Grandma and I would often lay in it together and she would listen to me babble on about who knows what. Always patient, always loving. I would then take a turn past the cherry tree, grabbing a few ripe cherries, and then through the pebbled paths that she spent hours creating, pasts the bed of brightly colored roses, through the fire pit that she would cook breakfast over when we would camp outside in her yard. I would eventually get to the large outdoor light that she installed. It had to have been 20 feet in the air and would shine across her whole yard at night. She wanted a large light like that so her gardens could be enjoyed in the evenings too. I would climb the pole and sit at the very top, feeling like I was on top of the world. Looking back on it now, I can see my soul being nurtured and taught quietly by the spirit as I just experienced her creation; a co-creation with God. She used to say her garden saved her. What she didn’t know was that her garden saved me too. Eventually, I would make my way into her kitchen. “Hi Honey!” she would say. “Are you hungry?” she would say, knowing full well what I had been eating outside. “Oh yes Grandma, can I have a grilled cheese sandwich?” “Sure honey.” She would make me one on her stove. I don’t know why, but her sandwiches were always the best. I always felt loved, and nurtured, and cared for, even when I was naughty, and she would chase me through the garden yelling “get over here you little shit, so I can beat you!” She never beat me, but would often just embrace me, and tell me how much she loved me. That’s how she beat me, with love and kindness.