The Easter Egg Bed: A Mother’s Day Reflection on Where a Garden Begins
We named it The Easter Egg because of the shape—an oval carved into the front lawn, not quite a garden yet.
The young twin rhododendrons, with their light pink blooms, were just beginning to flower. Two small stars in the front bed, set into an expanse of brown pine bark mulch, waiting to be filled in.
Mom planting cosmos in The Easter Egg, with tulips and young rhododendrons, in the early garden years. Photo by Parsley & Petal.
It didn’t look like much then. Just a defined edge and a pair of evergreen anchors.
My mom would later bring the space to life with vibrant Sonata pink and white cosmos, sparkling in the wind.
Years earlier, while I was experiencing a bad breakup, she had given me a poem. I don’t remember exactly what it said now—just that it had something to do with starting your own garden. About tending to something. Something that would grow.
After more than a decade of city living, I moved into the coastal cottage I now share with my husband. And I did just that.
My mom and I brought cosmos home, part of our late April nursery ritual, and something I still return to each year in The May Edit.
They were colorful, healthy plants. Something you could tuck into the soil and trust would take.
It was the first time I had planted anything myself.
Cosmos are one of my mom’s favorites—dainty, with delicate foliage, their classic daisy-like flowers floating on thin stems. They make a new garden feel complete sooner than it actually is.
I didn’t think much about it at the time. It just felt good to be doing something together.
I understand it differently now.
The Egg Bed years later, with rhododendrons, red roses, white salvia, and cosmos. Photo by Parsley & Petal.
I always pick up some flats of cosmos now, usually from one of our favorite local nurseries in late April. It’s part of the rhythm of the garden, the moment things shift from resting to beginning fresh once again.
This year, I started them from seed myself under grow lights, as part of what I’ve been calling The Test Garden. I pay attention to timing now. Light. What works, what doesn’t.
I still plant them every May, usually right around Mother’s Day.
Not because I need to,
but because it’s where I began.
First with her.
Then on my own.
And now, again.
I talk more about the tasks I’m focusing on in the garden this month in the latest Seasonal Edit, if you’d like to follow along with me.
The Seasonal Edit
The Seasonal Edit is a recurring garden checklist of what’s emerging, what can wait, and what deserves attention now. Practical tasks. Clear structure. Timed to the season as it unfolds.