No matter where we lived, our mum always managed to have a garden.

Before our family emigrated to Canada, there was the Cotswold farmhouse with its massive vegetable plot and borders of old fashioned hollyhocks, wallflowers, poppies and snapdragons — which form some of my earliest memories. Cowslips and dandelions from surrounding fields were gathered to make wine.

In Canada, even when we lived in an apartment above a store, the roof was commandeered to grow scarlet runner beans, or marigolds, geraniums and petunias in pots. Indoors, there’d be something growing on a bright windowsill; tomato seedlings or a pothos, or a sweet potato rooting in a vase. Later, after we’d left home, she had a small house on a large lot, and the veggies reappeared. She’d bring us huge bouquets of multihued China asters, or ripe tomatoes still smelling of sunshine.

Our mum passed away too soon 21 years ago, when she was about the age I am now. Today, Sarah and I made our yearly pilgrimage to Humber Nurseries in her honour. Happy Mother’s Day, Mum. We think you’d like the hosta we picked for you. It’s called, ‘Remember Me.’