22
Moving to Aunt’s Island has made me remember working in the garden when I was little.
Much like having to vacuum my room once a week, needing to hose the dirt off my mountainbike after a ride, or doing the dishes, helping in the garden fell in the same category —it was not punishment but did feel like it, as it was so boring.
There were times when I offered to help in the garden, afraid to miss out on something, only to then quickly realise how it actually opposed my playful needs and regretting my offer right away.
Chores that wasted away precious time, have become returning errands now I'm considered an adult. Tasks which are at times even enjoyable as their repetitive nature enables me to have my brain parse past events in a serene focus that seems more sincere than meditation.
There is nothing quite like zoning out while working on something.
Recalling those first times I helped out in the garden, I still experience mentally what strength it took to push the mower of which the handlebar was inconveniently placed above my head.
When all mowing had come to an end, —the work was not done— the raking began. A process in which the little blades of grass seemed to taunt at me as they escaped the direction in which I tried to instruct them to go with my sweeps.
I remember being so frustrated by how slow things went, how much effort it cost me.
One memory about the garden —and Aunt— stands out to me.
There was a big tree growing in our garden back home that had to be cut down, for a reason I don’t specifically remember. It probably had something to do with my parents being bothered by how its shadow had grown out of control.
It could also have been that there was a danger of it collapsing, or perhaps it was because of pigeons making it their home, whose shit then turned the soil below into a cesspool, making no plants able to grow there.
It probably was one of these reasons above that made my mother call her sister.
Aunt came over to help, climbed up the tree like it was her routine —as if she was about to enjoy her lunch there, like any other day.
She moved up so agile and effortless, a saw sheathed in a holster around her hip —swinging while she ascended.
She ended her climb just under the top and then started her work. Unsheathed the saw with her right hand while her left hand kept her close to the tree. Then piece by piece Aunt made the tree smaller. It was done in such a way that nothing would drop into the neighbours’ garden.
My parents had quite the spacious garden as they owned the house on the corner of the street. But as they lived in a row of suburban townhouses, the strips of garden of the neighbours were narrow and directly connected to theirs.
The tree must have been higher than the house which was in itself already three floors high. Aunt sawed, then yelled for us to watch out, then climbed down and repeated the process
—until only the stump remained.
We as kids then collectively took turns in digging the stump out.
I must have been about eight years old back then, of course completely exhausted after three or four small scoops with the iron spade —way too heavy and big for me to hold.
Aware of being the one slowing down the process I voiced my frustration and concerns —ashamed, and ready to throw my imaginary towel in the hypothetical ring.
Aunt answered dry, direct but also with a tone filled with care:
‘Every little bit helps’
As an adult, hearing that now, I think we can all agree that it sounds like a cliché. However, hearing that for the first time as a kid, it was a philosophical eye opener.
And it was true —any little bit of sand I was able to move helped to achieve the communal target.
It is something I have been thinking about more recently, as I try to understand the quality of slowness in progress.
I remember the role Aunt played in my life when I was younger.
She was my godmother—and in my parents’ will, the one I’d have gone to if anything had happened to them. Which ironically did not happen until right after I turned 18 when both of them never got out of their red Opel, after planting it into a tree at night.
Sadly, the contact with Aunt had faded away over the last decades.
Years later, when I graduated, I was so happy and proud of myself —yet had no one to celebrate it with other than my sister.
My sister and I were close but we had our own ways of dealing with grief, so we never could —and still can— be around each other for too long. We know that we love each other, yet need our distance to be able to love each other.
I wanted to let Aunt know that the effort had paid off, that even though there might have been quite the turbulence in my young adult life —and everything took longer than expected— I still had pulled through and achieved something.
So I bought a postcard, decided on a tacky one (with a silver rose on it) as my goal was for it to be garden themed. On the backside I conveyed my celebration
“Every little bit indeed, I finally graduated!”.
I was not sure if she would remember ever saying those words to me, back in the garden, when my parents were still alive —a life that felt ages ago, even then. But maybe that did not matter, the message was clear, I had let her know something she could reply to
—except she didn't.
I did not need a reply, I told myself. Maybe it was a bit weird of me to be the one sending a card, instead of receiving one at such a moment in my life. But even so, I never got why she did not bother to answer.
Aunt lived a life of her own up north near the coast, and was —more often than not— rather cut off from the rest of the world.
Maybe I should have seen it coming.
However this did not stop me from sending another letter, a while back.
Just to vent, maybe because I did not expect a reply —it felt liberating.
In a lot of detail, on multiple pages, I handwrote her how much I hated my job, my boss, and how it sucked to be an adult; it was nice to rant.
There was a need within me to talk to another generation, to the generation before me, that might have had the experience as I had before me, who would understand my frustrations. No solution needed to be offered, just an acknowledgement of my emotions.
It had felt good to write it all down, although the black envelope might have been a tad too gloomy, but it was the only one I could find.
It was a leftover from having to send distant family members the notice of the funeral —don’t ask.
Once again I did not hear back from her.
Aunt had started to feel more like a stranger to me, a positive memory of the past, slowly fading. A person clearly not interested in actively engaging with my life.
Until I received word of her will
—apparently I was not forgotten by her.