When he retired, my father became our permanent gardener.
His enthusiasm prompted me out of bed in the early morning hours. I could hear the loud sound of his lawn mower as he started to do what he loved the most — gardening.
We lived less than half hour from each other; his trips to our house were often, sometimes three times a week and always right after sunrise. I recall the endless times I would grab the pillow and cover my ears annoyed with the mower sound.
Rain or shine, he showed up. He called me his boss. I saw myself as his reluctant apprentice.
With the years our garden grew into a display of beautiful colours. At one point, we had planted more than 200 tulip bulbs together; they exploded into a magnificent rainbow the following spring and springs after that.
It was the most satisfying sight.
On those gardening days, before heading to work I made him coffee — black, no sugar — we would chat briefly, although he would have preferred I stayed longer. If he had it his way, I would entirely miss my work.
When I returned in the afternoon, I would often discover he had planted new flowers; red geraniums were his favourite. He insisted on planting hostas regardless of my preference.
But I had no choice, he imposed his way and I was certainly okay with it. After all, he was in charge of the garden.
I always found treats by the front door like mangoes, avocados, watermelon or mama's home baked goods.
My papa most certainly had a gift. His language of love was the gift of giving. His passion for life and the love for his family was beyond description taking the role of father and grandfather to a higher level.
He always made me feel like his little girl, never missing an opportunity to hug me or tell me how much he loved me.
My papa grew older and each year less and less capable of hauling his gardening tools. He could no longer manoeuvre the lawn mower with the same agility.
Slowly, he was becoming tired at small tasks. I did my best to help. I appreciated his efforts more than ever. The end of his helping years were getting near.
In my family, we often heard stories of his upbringing, born in 1936 and coming from a broken family his childhood was rough. To survive he had to learn the value of hard work at a very young age. The epitome of hard work, that's who my father was, he knew no other way.
Papa died in the winter of 2020.
I have since retired myself and traded my costume jewelry for gardening gloves and my high heels for mud shoes. I have inherited his love for the soil, his love for red geraniums and with the same ease I handle the rake like a pro. The sound of a lawn mower is now music to my ears and instantly evokes memories of years past. I have learned to love the foliage of hostas and admire the lovely lavender colour of its flowers.
If only I could make him one more cup of coffee, or stayed to chat a minute longer, pretend to like his silly repetitive jokes and laugh as if I'm hearing them for the first time. How I long for that.
I miss him so much. More than ever, I appreciate the simple person that he was and the monumental void that he is.
Even though he is gone, I continue to have a relationship with him. I imagine the voice that says, "I love you." In my mind he lives, in my heart he stays.
When I visit his resting place at the cemetery, I update him on family affairs and discuss about my garden. How proud he would be to see what I've done with the place. It is my attempt for him to stay relevant.
I am now the one in charge of my flowers.
I move them from place to place until I find the right spot. I understand it now, how the soil works and the importance of placement, seeing them bloom is a delicious treat to my eyes.
My father taught me not to be bothered by the bees, and to let them drink the nectar they seek.
In the solitude of my garden I'm no longer the apprentice.
I often catch myself talking to the vibrant petunias and praising them for their beauty. I enjoy the silence of my companion, my teacher, my father the gardener.
- Gloria Parihar, Coquitlam
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