I brought my father some strawberry plants once the weather started to improve, thinking it would do him good to get out in the garden. My mother had always enjoyed the spring planting. But the next time I visited they were still sitting on the kitchen counter where I’d left them, wilted from lack of water.
“Why didn’t you plant these?” I asked, coming through into the living room where my father was watching a programme about World War II bunkers.
“I didn’t get around to it,” he said, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“Don’t you want the garden to look nice?”
“What’s the point when it’s just me looking at it?”
*
The next time I came to visit, I brought more strawberry seedlings and planted them myself. But my father didn’t water them and they died.
*
“What the hell is that?” my father asked on my next visit, indicating the potted shrub I was holding.
“A dwarf pomegranate plant. I thought you could put it in the greenhouse. It’s very low maintenance.”
“And what’s a pomegranate when it’s at home?”
“I knew you’d ask that.” I took out the pomegranate I’d bought in the supermarket by the garden centre. I sliced it open, removed a few seeds, and handed them to my father. He placed them warily in his mouth. I wondered if the garden centre would let me return the plant if I brought it back the same day.
A light went on in Dad’s eyes. “I’ve had these before.”
“Really?”
He held out his hand for some more seeds. “Your mother and I ate them in France on our honeymoon.”
*
The next time I visited, the pomegranate plant was out in the greenhouse. It looked well watered and its glossy leaves reflected the sunshine.
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