Bloom

I fling open the French windows in my kitchen and inhale the fresh scent of the morning garden.

How are you today? Did you sleep at all? Is everyone safe?

The morning doesn’t bring the tranquillity. I haven’t experienced calm or peaceful for years now. The thoughts and questions every morning are a sad and constant part of my conversations with mum, whose life in the country of prolonged conflict hasn’t been joyous or relaxing for as long as I can remember.

Every morning we review the aftermaths of the night: the uncertainty, the fear, the long-awaited resolution. The pain of our separation hangs in the air like the laundry left on the washing line overnight; heavy and ugly.

But later, when all the topics beyond our control are exhausted, we naturally flow into our happier place of discussion: our gardens.

Mum and I are the keenest of gardeners with very different starting points. She stumbled upon her gardening routine in her 60s, out of necessity; me, a little earlier in life, for fun, relaxation and closeness to the green-fingered members of my family.

Flowers, veg, fruit trees, pests and plants exchanged with the neighbours; nothing is off limits. We lose ourselves in this long-distance gardening; showing off proudly our latest achievements or worrying over the struggling tomato plants. Me and her are separated by many miles but feeling like we are a doorstep way.

I am dreaming of the day when we are together in a peaceful setting, gardening together. Her, giving me advice I won’t follow, but happy, she is with me.

With the never-ending fondness and respect, our relationship keeps blooming; hope, forever snuggled in our hearts like warm kittens, continues to live.

Hopefully, one day in the not very distant future, when our lives are ordinary and quiet, my mum and I will garden together to our hearts’ content.