Smell the flowers

Our lunch bowls of boiled vegetables and pasta with tomato sauce sat empty in front of us; an adequately filling and nourishing meal. The luncheon had been produced using a combination of the stove, the microwave and Dad’s special touch (which is to say, a firm belief that there’s no need to heat pasta sauce if the pasta is going to heat it anyway). Peering out the window, I commented on the break in the rain and it being a good time for a walk. “Yes, I’ll get my umbrella” agreed Dad, plodding off in search of an umbrella and a plastic bag to put it in. I decided to wear a hat as rain protection, and after some back and forth with options hanging on the back door, we set off with me sporting a smallish cricket hat that nobody remembers belonging to. 

Reaching a juncture on our journey, I asked Dad whether he wanted to venture down the lane, or continue along the footpath. Despite previously expressing strong misgivings about the lane, due to it being too overgrown and tree root-laden, he chose the lane, and we carefully navigated a couple of rebellious treeroots and were able to stop and smell the jasmine which was flowering at the southern end.

Later on the same walk, which is really just one block (or 1,000 steps according to the step tracker on Dad’s phone) that Dad treads so slowly that we can be gone for at least 30 minutes, Dad pointed out some bright red flowers. They were the same type that he’d found thrown into a neighbour’s front garden a couple of walks ago, rescued and placed in a vase on the kitchen table. Dad also likes to rescue discarded work gloves on his walks, of which mum, hearing about it from her base in Hobart, doesn’t approve. 

Cleaning up after lunch was a fairly simple process, although there was the matter of the leftover pasta sauce. We agreed to freeze it, which meant searching for a suitable container. The next task was labeling the container, which was complicated by neither of us knowing where any tape was. After searching dresser drawers and a funny little shelf where bread used to be delivered 100 years ago, Dad eventually found some sticky tape in the cupboard above the microwave. He carefully wrote “Tomato sauce, October 2022” with a black marker, which then almost immediately began to fade on the sticky tape. “Masking tape would have been better” I noted, without being prepared to look for any. Dad felt that it was really the year that was more important than the month, and a flash of a memory came back to me. After Grandma died, the aunts were cleaning out the freezer and found some unlabelled wedding cake. The last wedding had been Jane’s about 10 years earlier, so it was assumed that it must have been hers. Anyway, I think it was Dad who thought of putting a second piece of tape over the first to reinforce the writing, and after searching again in the dresser drawer and bread shelf, he found it in the cupboard above the microwave, and was pleased with the result. 

Recent visits to Dad have been quite enjoyable. When I was a teenager and he was busy “providing for a family”, our paths only really crossed when there was conflict - his TV too loud just outside my bedroom, his socks going missing and ending up mistakenly in my laundry pile, or times when I wasn’t allowed to go out. Now, both of us in different stages of life, there isn’t the same clash of wills, and we can take in the simpler things in life together - an impressive flower, daily walks, and the changing seasons. Dad, who rarely prepared a meal in our 20 odd years of living together, (although that is partly because his pizza a la peanut butter remains on the veto list) now even bakes (from packet mix) if I give him enough notice of my arrival.

So, Dad continues his daily walks and dutifully calls mum each morning and night to assure her that he’s alive and well. He occasionally accuses me of being bossy, and other people of interfering, but mostly he's placid and agreeable, and chats away pleasantly with the community drivers who take him to appointments. When I asked Dad if he felt resentment towards any of us he thought about it and said no. He didn’t feel resentment towards any people, just about the aging process. At which point his voice wobbled ever so slightly.