Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 34

My fondest memories are the ones with my
grandmother in her garden, burying my hands into
the rich earth, searching for new potatoes or plucking
the fragrant runner beans from their trellises, biting
the ends off and rolling the bitter skin around my
tongue. I had been given my own trowel, sturdy boots
and wicker basket, a perfect match to her own, just
smaller. I foraged through her labours, harvesting her
time and eating it fresh, greedy and gluttonous. She
never complained of my appetite, my clumsy steps
treading on fresh shoots. In her eyes, I was the perfect
gardener, keen and fresh, craving knowledge as much
as I did her strawberries.
Only now I understand how she had poured
her blood and sweat into the vegetables. How what
had been a weekend delight for me, a respite from my
raging parents suffering through a divorce, had been
a labour of love for her, her fingers growing stiff from
years of cultivating.
I came to live with her in the sloped house on
Lanesborough Rise as she ailed, age taking her spirit
and s