“let my gardens speak for me when i am gone. let them speak in colored whispers of all the beauty i have seen. and felt. and lived. let them speak of how much death had to find me; how many hard seasons it took to make me a living, breathing thing. let them speak of my seasons of growth and abundance, but let them also tell of my seasons of loss and decay. let the soft, wet earth be a reminder of hardness that didn't win. of sadness that didn't calcify. of surrender that triumphed over resistance. and let the glorious, fragrant blooms speak of my life and its greatest lesson: that the beauty we make never dies.” 

Emory Hall