I have plants that were part of my father’s garden Particularly maidenhair fern gloriously delicate light lovely as lace For the year after he passed I said hello to it every morning as if it were him still around On the morning of the afternoon he died ambulance officers carried Dad out He touched all the pot plants on the deck as if saying goodbyes to his garden Making those stretcher bearers stop to wind down the canopy umbrellas shading the ramp He tried to do it himself too weak with only eight hours to live The neighbours couldn’t believe it I still tend to the fern in my bathroom A remembrance of all the times spent in gardens with him staking dahlias picking pea pods checking the husks to see if sweetcorn was ready to wolf down licking fingers glazed with salted butter when he was forty when I was ten “Hello Dad” my ferny inheritance I still love you Your garden is still part of mine You are still part of me
This touched me deeply. The fern isn't just a plant anymore—it becomes a conversation that never really ended. I especially loved the image of your father reaching out to touch each pot before leaving. Some farewells aren't spoken with words; they're spoken with hands. And sometimes love keeps growing quietly, leaf by leaf, in the things we continue to care for.
What a beautiful comment, you are so insightful, Antonio. I would like to quote you on your words in my book of quotes, hopefully coming out next year. Your words touch my still tender grief for my Dad in:
“Some farewells aren't spoken with words; they're spoken with hands. And sometimes love keeps growing quietly, leaf by leaf, in the things we continue to care for.”
https://go.poeticcinemastudio.com/
I hope it lives forever 🤞
Thanks, me too.
Such bittersweet memories that keep us going.
Mostly sweet when it comes to my parents, not much bitterness though.
This touched me deeply. The fern isn't just a plant anymore—it becomes a conversation that never really ended. I especially loved the image of your father reaching out to touch each pot before leaving. Some farewells aren't spoken with words; they're spoken with hands. And sometimes love keeps growing quietly, leaf by leaf, in the things we continue to care for.
What a beautiful comment, you are so insightful, Antonio. I would like to quote you on your words in my book of quotes, hopefully coming out next year. Your words touch my still tender grief for my Dad in:
“Some farewells aren't spoken with words; they're spoken with hands. And sometimes love keeps growing quietly, leaf by leaf, in the things we continue to care for.”