From the moment I was born I was the tomaeto to her tomahto, the rock, paper, scissors to her scissors, paper, rock. But like vine tendrils weave, wrap and warp, our lives were inevitably and unconditionally intertwined: two sets of locked horns battling through the seasons: a time to sow, a time to war, a time to heal and a time for peace.
Sitting on the deck sipping steaming cups of tea, entertained by birds dashing from lime blossom to lemon flower, to grapefruit hoard. Frantic wings and frenetic calls celebrate the season’s cache of liquid gold. We discuss the garden and projects for spring: what to pull out, what to prune, and what to plant. Forever stuck in the age-old rut, “Will you ever concede? Never comply? Can you, for once, just agree with me?”
Early risers from way back, we make the most of Summer’s cool mornings engaging in undeclared war: she selects flowers for church, I choose blooms for the house. She hobbles from bush to shrub, silently lost in her disappearing world as we pass on our crossed circuits. I catch her staring at the crepe myrtle, confusion warring with frustration, “What’s this one called? Will its petals fall? Do its cut flowers keep?”
Leaves fade green to gold, gold to yellow, yellow to parched drifting down to dormant ground. Later starts and longer circuits in search of treasures to brighten our separate, yet co-joined worlds. Trekking the garden path, I help her over logs and around rocks. She looks at me and then down at her hand considering the secateurs and the foliage in my arms. Bewilderment and doubt mar her face, “What was I doing? Why are we here? Who are those for?”
Too cold to walk, she sits on the deck wrapped in a favourite rug, we sip steaming mugs of tea. Her gnarled thumb strokes the side of the cup, eyes smoky yet smiling as the breeze weaves through pots of bobbing salvia, viola and phlox. Honeyeaters dart through the bath as wallabies graze on the kangaroo grass. We discuss plans for the spring, and she nods, “Whatever you want. Wherever you like. However you think is best.”
Propped up with pillows, bed facing the garden, awed by the explosive show staged by spring. Her room full of colour and confusion, depression and peace and the scent of Murraya blooms. A freshly cut sunflower lies in her lap, twisted fingers play with the petals, and stroke florets and leaves. All memory of names, of seasons, of plans, withered and gone. All fight, staunch horns and steel, laid to rest. Restlessness, angst, and resentment, find replacement, reform and release.
Golds, reds, and rich, warm browns spark through the garden’s evergreens. Kookaburras call and the Drongos dance as ashes swirl and twist their way through a rush of golden leaves. I wander through our garden and relive the path we’d made, around life’s rocks, through promissory papers to provide and care, and always, till the end, with sparring secateurs.
