In 2021, I returned to Mexico to look for the plants that my father grew and that were still alive. As I visited the gardens, I started to become aware of all that he left behind. Each garden reminded me of how much my father and his death had impacted the lives of those who knew him. I began to think about the relationship between nature and memory, and how it can serve as an emotional link between the past and the present. These plants are somehow part of my father's living memory and a tangible manifestation of the mark he left behind.
To find the plants, I visited some gardens where my father collaborated, a ranch where he produced plants, and the homes of his closest friends. As I wandered through the gardens, I fearfully tried to enter into my father's memory and understand why he decided to stop living. Through the people close to him, and his plants, I came to understand that the idea of my search was useless and that there was no point in looking for a reason. None of us who stayed behind came to understand suicide. Plants, on the other hand, might understand it. When a plant finds itself in a hostile environment, such as nutrient-poor soil or lack of water, it may decide to activate a defense mechanism that leads to its death. In doing so, the plant releases a large amount of nutrients into the soil that other plants will use for growth and survival. This, which may seem like an act of desperation, for them is simply another strategy to ensure that life goes on in the best possible way.
