I lost both of my mothers this winter. ■ The passing of mum (my scottish mother) and mom (my American mother-in-law) left great holes in my soul. Mom, an exquisitely tailored bird of a woman with twinkling blue eyes, collected antiques, painted portraits, wrote poetry and managed her stock portfolios till shortly before her death at 101. We would joke that a ride in her car around treasure Island, florida, was like experiencing “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”—a reference from The Wind in the Willows, the classic book that provided this company’s name, Dulce Domum. ■ Mum was a gardener. In scotland, her grounds were a riot of roses and sweet peas, and for edibles she favored tomatoes and rhubarb. I followed the seasons from her phone calls: “My crocuses and snowdrops are out” was typical in early spring; “I took the geraniums in this week” heralded the beginning of winter. ■ For 30 years, she spent her summers in the U.S. reorganizing our gardens. she would start by walking around, tut-tutting at poor placement here and overcrowding there. Then she’d head off to the nursery, where she often laughed at the plants for sale: “Marianne, at home we call these weeds!” ■ One year she arrived with her friend bett scullion, and they decided to plant pachysandra under the trees and along the pathways of my old house. Ten years later, as I was downsiz- ing, the pachysandra stretched like a dark green carpet as far as the eye could see. I couldn’t leave it. So some of the plants were dug up and transplanted to my new home in Wilton, Connecticut. ■ This week I realized that a new green carpet now covers the hillside down to the waterfall, stretching the length of the old stone walls and completely surrounding the house as if wrapping me in it’s soft, vibrant strength. The holes are filling in.