I can't tell you how much I wish I could be there, but I'm unlikely to be able to make the trek from Ireland at that time. However, I will certainly be present in spirit - sitting quietly and thinking of her at the appointed hour. I will then raise a glass to her memory (not for the first time) and sing a verse for her.

The last time I did this was in my garden at sunset. And it sparks a memory which may be appropriate to relate here.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I had been out in our back field planting blooming things and nourishing things. But I had to fly to California unexpectedly, to attend my 95-year-old father who was suddenly taken seriously ill; and he died while I was there. So I spent much of the summer away from my plants.

One of these was something the garden centre had given me without charge, because it was in such poor shape. The man said I was welcome to take it if I thought I could do anything with it, so I brought it home and moved it into a larger pot, with plenty of water and soil-enriching food, and put it out in the sun. But still it ailed and drooped, barely hanging on to life. Then the news from California came crashing in, and I had more pressing things to deal with. I left Michael in charge of looking after everything and flew away.

Upon my return, I went outside to visit everybody and see how they were doing, and all were in rude good health except that one, which remained brown-tinged and spindly. I thought about permanently relocating it to the compost heap, but when I picked it up and looked closely I saw that it wasn't quite dead; and something in me recoiled from tossing a living thing on the trash pile. So I went the other way, filled up a bigger planter with fresh earth and more water, and moved it to a new spot, sunnier and calmer, less windy. And…

It took on a whole new life. Suddenly it started sprouting buds, the brown turned to green and the blossoms multiplied. Every time a bloom faded, three more seemed to take its place. It reminded me of someone constantly singing, for the sheer joy of it. The flowers are still going strong as I type this, on a grey, unmistakably autumn day. By now you may be wondering the name of this plant that has so wholly resurrected itself:

Dianthus