Winter Bloom

“Why are you planting more of those? They’re so ugly.” 

We’re kneeling in the garden together and I’m looking at the bright red geraniums with teenage disgust and confusion.  Dad’s wearing his everyday uniform of an unironed flanno and cargo pants. He never uses gardening gloves because getting a little dirt on ya hands is good for ya.

“They’re not ugly. See how they bloom in winter? Kinda like me, aye. Growin’ in harsh conditions n’ that.”  

He’s only half joking. I’ve learnt that making light of situations is a way he copes. The other ways include smoking like a chimney, eating teacakes and trying to make the world a brighter place for me and my siblings. 

“Shut up!” I laugh, and he tries not to crack a smile. His hands are wrinkled, and stained with dirt at the fingertips. I watch the soil compact under the pressure of his palms and then rise when his hands pull away, as if it were breathing. 

“When I was in Silverwater, I dreamed of having me own garden.” 

He looks thoughtfully at the flowers, and softly touches some of their petals as if petting a kitten. For a man so gruff, he looks soft and tender in these moments. I try not to pry too much about his time inside, but I’m always curious. Sometimes in the evenings when everyone else has fallen asleep, he’ll sit down with a cuppa and tell me stories.

He told me about how his first memories were in the orphanage, and he went his whole time there without knowing his biological sister was in the same one. He told me about how when he first got put inside, they stripped him down and sprayed him with a fire hose before handing him his prison greens. He told me about how he read the bible back to front in his cell - trying to find meaning somewhere, anywhere. He liked that Jesus bloke, but thought people might’ve been getting him all wrong. Through cups of tea with far too much sugar, and the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes I would listen intently. I would watch as he stared into the distance, and I’d have to bring him back gently to the room. He would remind me that it’s bedtime, and I would remind him that I’m never too old to be tucked in. 

I look at the garden in front of me.

“Guess your wishes have been granted, old man.”

I assume that a groan and a raised eyebrow are coming my way, but he’s too connected to the task at hand. He doesn’t even make it look like a task, but a loving act to tend to the land. 

“Yeah, only coz your mum’ll let ‘em die otherwise.” 
He winces and gestures to the veggie patch which has been struggling in his absence. We both chuckle. 

“Not super reliable is she?” 

I stare wistfully at the rotting pumpkin, which looks more like Dali’s melting clock than a vegetable. Sometimes I feel kinda like that. My attempt at telepathically apologising to the squash is interrupted by his answer to my rhetorical question. He often does that, and sometimes I think he just likes being listened to.

“Nup, but we love her all the same.” 

He continues tending to the geraniums, trimming any browning leaves off the stem. He is so careful with them, even though to me they look dead and useless. I like how he sees the world. Though it’s a place that has treated him harshly, still he tends so lovingly to even wilted leaves, believing that they too have a purpose. Even if we don’t know exactly what it is. 

The arvo southerly wind whistles around us, as cockatoos noisily begin taking leave from the trees above. We’re both patting down the soil around the flowers now, and watching it breathe. He looks over at me.

“Just like us.” 

I smile and turn my gaze back toward the geraniums, caressing some of the smooth petals. They feel like little pieces of velvet on my fingertips. Maybe they’re not so bad after all.

“Let’s go inside sweet’eart, it’s getting dark.”