Kissing the Bolivian in the Spring

Not much new in my garden other than plants waning.  The days are shorter and the sun less harsh.  Dead plants are in abundance in one garden that I don't tend to.  But my Bolivian Begonias have thrived this summer with a little love and water.  Tad bit of bloom booster seemed to work.  I guess they love the shady spot they've taken up in my yard as they've been blooming like crazy for months. But right now it feels like a swan song of bursting forth before they die in the chill of a New England fall turning into winter.  Seems a shame.   They grow so much and then just die.  I suppose I could cry but they've lived their life.  But maybe I could still cry at the loss of such a beauty.  I don't cry much.  I've been told I'd be emotionally healthier, less stuck and maybe even remember my childhood if I did.  I wasn't aware I was stuck but sobbing has been recommended.  But that's hard to imagine when you've grow up with a chaotic mother who lived by unpredictable waves of emotion, tears and sighs, sobbing and then flinging love in my direction in one moment and then hate in another.  You tend to steer clear.  Of her and of emotions.  Still.  And after all these years.  "Don't you love your mama?"  She'd ask as I stood there frozen like a petrified cartoon character being chased by a zombie and knowing death was near, hoping to not be seen.  It is, I suppose, the next step for me, to embrace both sides of myself.  Integrate as I age, aspire to self-actualize.  That logical and safe distance I inherited by my introverted and quiet father.  Bless him.  And that creative, wild, sexual, loud extroverted mother. Damn her, maybe.  Perhaps next year I will sob and ball my eyes out, wail even, as I await fall and the death of all my now beloved Bolivian.  Most likely not.  But I just might kiss each and every bloom as I bid them farewell next fall.