Moribund

“What do these symbols mean, was he part of some cult or something?” A mother’s heartbroken voice cried out after looking at an array of roughly made drawings.

“My poor baby boy,” she cried. I wish I could tell her what those symbols really meant, just some doodles that I made out of boredom. She slowly continued moving throughout my room, slowly examining things she had seen many times before. She was accompanied by my father who would try to comfort her but his touch was a splash of oil in water. I hadn’t even done laundry before I left, guess that wasn’t my problem anymore. “Nothing makes sense anymore,” she continued. I had to agree, I swear I hoovered the floor before I left. Where did all this dust come from?

Mum then proceeded to pick up a potted plant, another victim of my neglect. None of my flowers had bloomed. When I was younger, I remember sitting in the sun at my grandma’s house. Surrounded by luscious green grass, chirping birds and enough old people to justify the construction of a brand spanking new cemetery.

Unfortunately, one of the potted plants that had been placed on grandma’s windowsill had either not received enough sunlight or water, causing it to die. I saw it fit to send it into the recesses of the back of the garden, where it couldn’t bother anyone. But all grandma said was ‘Let’s see what we can do’.

After that I realised there were two differing ideologies at play. My own, where I saw it fit to throw the plant away, where it could decompose and feed future generations of plants in a virtuous cycle. The second was that of my grandma, she gave the plant the nutrients it had been missing and the following day it came back to life. At the cost of only time, effort and grandma’s secret ingredient it returned, flowers blooming and all. At the time I couldn’t understand this and when I asked how she did it, she simply said “magic”. The real answer would’ve been better: when something is dying nurture and care can bring it back to life. Then mum put the plant down. I only wished I had thought of grandma before and taken care of it better.

She definitely wasn’t ready to say goodbye, but she was ready to leave. By leaving, so did the remainder of the air and life in that fish tank room. I watched unblinkingly as she left my room and entered the car. It was the bleak mid-winter and yet I stood there in t-shirt and jeans.

I continued to watch while Spring, Summer and Fall both bathed and berated me. I waited all the way until a year had passed. And there mum was, it was good to see her again. Why didn’t I tell her that more often? She had another potted flower in hand and wanted to leave them in my room, dumb woman! She should know I would’ve mistreated them just like the last ones. A new resident lived in that old room now and she asked if they would take and care for them. The new resident was also young and in his twenties, he took the flowers. Mum didn’t need to stay any longer and so she left. Next year she wouldn’t return, but I could never leave. I really wish I had thought of nan.