Grandma's Garden

There was a warm, hazy glow from the evening sun as April sat silently on the garden bench and scrolled wildly through Google looking for gardening tips. Eyes darting across the links, she felt agitated... unsettled... irritated. How had this become another thing for her to do? She could have caught a bus to Emma's house and be sitting in her garden sipping some cheap wine and topping up her summer tan in the last blast of an Indian summer. Instead her mum had called her at work, "go visit your Grandma, she misses you". What a lie that turned out to be?

She tore her eyes from her phone and stuffed it in her jeans pocket as she shuffled to the garden shed. As the door swung open it creaked noisily, as it always had, and a smile almost emerged on April's lips. This space was so familiar; her grandparents had adored their garden and you could always find one of them trimming, pruning, mowing or potting, and the clatter of the activity was permeated by that incessant squeak as they realised they needed the shears or more compost or more likely, a cup of tea! When Grandad had passed, she and her mum had visited that garden almost every day, watching Grandma throw herself in completing “his jobs”. She said she felt his presence in the wildflowers, and knew he would be looking over her shoulder smiling as he pointed out the difference between his way and her way; always acknowledging her way must be the right one though!

April traced her fingertips over the workbench, the watering can, the empty plant pots, the gardening twine. Everything look undisturbed; a thin veil of dust across the top of it all, and spiders’ webs hanging from the roof and across the window. This little shed had always been full of life and now it was frozen. She knew that after Grandma’s fall she’d struggled to get up and down the few steps to the front door, but she had never thought that might mean she wouldn’t stroll in to the garden every once in a while. As she reached her grandmother's gardening gloves, she picked them up and turned them over in her hands; they were mucky as anything, small, plain and green, and they'd been there as long as she could remember. Was it OK for her to wear them? Would it all fall in to place then?

April strode back in to the steadily softening sunlight; a little calmer and more reflective now, she could appreciate the beauty of her surroundings in a different way. This garden had been a rounders pitch, a battlefield, a picnic site, a place to practice handsprings and walkovers, a hide and seek championship ground, a place so full of wonderful memories and moments. And today, basked in the September sun, it was just as vibrant as ever. A little more dishevelled than it had looked in her childhood, but still a haven. As she glanced toward the fruit trees, she remembered her Grandma grinning at her from a top a little stepladder as she picked the apples, plums or pears for today's jam or crumble or pie. Was that joyous lady still a part of Grandma now?

April faltered. This garden felt like home and she hadn't seen it for months. She'd be busy; exams, new job, potential boyfriends, parties, fall outs with friends. But she knew she hadn't really been too busy to be there from time to time. She’d phoned Grandma occasionally, but the conversations had always been stilted, talking over each other or awkwardly silent. When hospital appointments and ready-meals were all Grandma had to talk about, it felt pretty tense to talk about anything exciting. Was she just rubbing it in that she was young and Grandma was old? She knew that was excuses though; she’d not tried her best…

Her heart sank in to her boots as she relived the moment she arrived at her Grandma's that afternoon; it was the first time her Grandma didn't know who she was. A smile of recognition had graced Grandma’s face as April had plonked herself down on the sofa, but she knew she was trying to place her. "It's me Grandma... April, your Jenny's daughter". "Of course it is, how silly of me! How are you Jenny?" "No I'm not Jenny, Grandma, I'm April". It had taken all her strength not to shout; but why would she have been shouting? Frustration that she was a stranger to her ill Grandmother? To stop herself from crying? Anger that she was there a little too late?

Grandma had looked confused and weary; she was a tiny old lady now, not the buxom, full of life, carefree woman of years gone by. It would have been cruel to yell at her for any reason at all. Consumed by disappointment, April had sat silently for a few moments in the gaze of this wonderful women, then Grandma surprised her with a little of her irrepressible sparkle… "Pop down to the pear tree will you, my sweet? Bring us a few ripe ones back and I'll make us a bit of pudding for after tea!"

And so April had found herself sat on the bench, searching for answers like "is now the right time of year for pears?" "How do you know if a pear is ripe?" and wishing that she'd never come so she didn't have to see the power house woman she knew melt away before her eyes.

But now, after sauntering across the garden and pausing beneath the pear tree, she knew she needed to savour every minute, every smile, every kind conversation she was yet to have with her Grandma. She took a deep breath, smelling the earthiness, the grass, the sun soaked stems and resolved to try harder, to think of Grandma more, and to love her. In that moment, she knew she didn't need to search for the answers to questions about this garden, she had a skilled guide sitting quietly in an armchair just metres away. Although she had lost her sense of now, she hadn't lost her expertise, her knowledge, her history or who she was. Of course the pears were ripe, Grandma could feel it from the seasons. April was certain that she would hold on to who her Grandma truly is for as long as she could.

She skipped back up to the house, picking a cornflower as she went, ready to place it in her Grandma's hand as her Grandad would have, and called out "Grandma, tell me how to look after that pear tree..."