Unsupervised
Sometimes, when I marvel just how brave and resilient my widowed mother is, I realised I ought to give myself a little tap on the shoulder, occasionally and pause to acknowledge how brave and resilient I have been these past months. Last year probably was the most challenging year of my life and following my father's death I had been so busy cheering everyone else on and up that I hardly allowed myself to grieve. I deliberately choose not to dwell on certain events that would make me deeply sad and overall, this tactic has been working well. It is random little things that tug on my heartstrings, like looking at the calendar mum made for me (the only one she produced last year) last Christmas, containing different photos of my dad each month, framed by abstract watercolours of her, or realising that there are certain topics I won't ever be able to discuss with him. Above all, this is anything to do with gardening and I almost feel like an imposter now that mum seems to regard me as the authority on this topic, asking me for feedback on her gardening decisions. She has thankfully hired someone to help her and there is this unspoken agreement among us that my parents' garden, which was planned and maintained by dad and admired by friends and family alike will be kept up as well as she could. Obviously, I can't really do much to contribute on my often very short visits, but I will try my best and even in my own little garden here in suburbia, I sometimes hear my dad's sarcastic comments in my head when I potter around and wonder what he would do in my place.






