Passiflora

I remember when we buried Dad in the back yard. I grated a trough around the tall stump of the liquid amber Mum managed to poison before it fell down on the house in one of those electric storms we get every year. Mum stood wiping her hands on her apron. Watched me. Said nothing. I’d asked her to wait till I got there. I’d asked him, too, but bloody minded as he’d always been – I’m the one to decide. Respect, and all that .... No. It wasn’t like that, although I’d preferred it. His marbles just dribbled away like the dregs of his terminal tea until he was spent. Gone.

I sprinkled sweet pea seeds into the trough and then shook out his ashes from the plastic box the crematorium had sent. The box was heavy, the ashes soft. Off-white. My hands trembled as I shook, trying to keep the trough neat. There was enough to go full circle around the 50-year old trunk. I shoveled the mounds and patted the ground down. His women stood holding hands – Good-bye Dad. Good-bye Dad. I had to go.

Mum, let me know when the sweet peas bloom. Take a photo. And when they shrivel in the heat and floods flash the soil just wait a while, not too long though, and plant something else. Passionfruit, perhaps? And if you have time, forget the cellulose. Capture it in oils. Will you? Please?

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Published at LitUp (UNSW Union) in 2004.