I have a patch of lawn that needs to be trimmed every once in a while, and even though it's colourfully known as c@#t grass, for once I’m not dropping any silly euphemisms.This grass of mine that needs to be cut is done so by a gardener, as he possesses the tools of the trade and I possess hayfever; the gift that keeps on sneezing. So late on Sunday when he came over to my place to do his quick green lap, he mentioned in his low-key way that his mother had died only forty minutes earlier.
He seemed very calm about the whole thing; obviously having forewarning about her fate helped somewhat, as she was apparently struck down by an illness, that once it started, there was no cure. He told me that only a month ago his fourteen-year-old daughter and mother had gone camping on a solid three day trek, and they both came back scratched but in great shape.
As he drove away in his van and trailer, taking all my clippings with him, his words reminded me about the finality of death. There were no take two’s, just a single shot and that’s it. So for what it's worth, I devote this blog entry to all the gardeners of the world and their mothers,
Ms practising-one-take-wonder M.
