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My Grandmother's Pot Plants

Against the side fence, four long planks of wood ascended like steps supported on pillars of old red bricks serving as a stand for my Grandmother's collection of potted plants. Cuttings from exotic species gifted by friends, passed down family heirlooms harboring memories of past lives, feathery ferns and plump bellied cacti battled South Australian frosty winters and the baking heat of a summer sun. All throughout my childhood they were sustained by love, flowering on the cue of seasons and erupting into green in a yearly miracle of renewal. I had this odd notion that each plant found root and drew from a medium beyond mere soil, that a strange symbiosis existed between plant and a human soul. Not one succumbed to heat or cold or fell victim to disease. They grew as a constant, helping to hold up a wall that gave a safe and solid perimeter to our lives. When my Grandmother died, they died too - at first escaping notice in the shadow of her passing. It was later when bare spaces drew attention to their absence and added to the list of what was missed. Time heals grief but memory excavates the loss.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025




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Date: 3/8/2025 1:30:00 AM
What a fantastic final line, Paul. I use to have beautiful gardens but apartment living has reduced my tending to potted plants that require indirect sunlight. I miss getting my hands dirty.
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Willason Avatar
Paul Willason
Date: 3/13/2025 10:09:00 PM
The last line is what it all turns on...thanks Lin for commenting and giving it yr time. Gardens can mirror our own souls in a way, places to retreat to, renew, find rest. You may be deprived of space for plants but your garden now, I would respectfully point out, is your poetry and that covers an impressive area. You tender it well dear Lin.

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