Photo: Sue Snell By Etsuko Yasunaga
Empty poppy pod
It was in April, near Anzac Day. I dragged out a shoebox full of seeds, and searched for the poppy pods I had saved from the previous season.
Gardening Australia once had a segment on poppies. The presenter mentioned that if I were to sow the seeds around Anzac Day in April, there should be a wonderful display of poppy flowers in my garden around Remembrance Day in November. It was easy to remember the timing because of the two significant days.
Empty poppy pod
It was in April, near Anzac Day. I dragged out a shoebox full of seeds, and searched for the poppy pods I had saved from the previous season.
Gardening Australia once had a segment on poppies. The presenter mentioned that if I were to sow the seeds around Anzac Day in April, there should be a wonderful display of poppy flowers in my garden around Remembrance Day in November. It was easy to remember the timing because of the two significant days.
Off I went. I sowed lots of seeds from the pods I saved, sprinkled a bit of dirt over them, watered them in. The seeds germinated within a week or so. I didn’t tend them much after that. In fact I almost forgot about those poppies until November when the flowers came vividly alive in my backyard. It was a beautiful sight, and easy to achieve. Sowing poppy seeds in April has become my new gardening routine.
I was given a few poppy seedlings in the spring of 2018. They were slightly different from the dainty, delicate Californian poppies I was growing in my garden. They had jagged edged leaves, and grew very strong. They stood up straight and the flowers were amazing. The colours of the petals were deep and intense and had a velvety texture. Every morning a couple more buds opened and I enjoyed spotting new flowers. Sometimes I saw bees in the centre of the flower. Although the flowers were spectacular, they didn’t last long. Within a day or two, they closed and the decaying process started. Because they were such beautiful poppies, I was resolute to collect seeds. I was pleased to see pods were forming. Once they were completely dry I collected all the pods, saving them for the following April.
They were the ones I was looking for in my seed box. I selected a labelled Zip-loc bag, and held a firm poppy pod in my hands tenderly. All I need do now is break the pod and release the seeds from chambers inside. I anticipated the abundant supply of seeds. I cut off the top of the pods carefully. Nothing was there. I opened chambers inside. No seeds at all to be seen. This can’t be right.
I continued to break poppy pods almost frantically in search of seeds. This can’t be right. I was almost panicking. This can’t be right. Right then the word “barren” popped into my mind, and pierced my heart deeply. Holding the empty poppy pod in my hand, I was tormented by a simple word ‘barren’. I thought I had dealt with the issue of childlessness in my life enough. I haven’t felt this kind of sharp pain for so long, yet the empty poppy seed pod associated with a word ‘barren’ had broken me to pieces. It hit me like a massive wave when I least expected it. I stood in the kitchen alone and felt the ache intensely. I observed the grief, and waited for it to subside. It did in the end. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, held my aching heart tenderly.
(I still don’t know why those pods didn’t contain any seeds. Maybe the flowers were open such a short period of time they weren’t pollinated, or perhaps all the seeds fell from the tiny windows at the top of the pods. There is no way of knowing why, but the aching yearning for motherhood was real. The pain was true, and I am little tender because of that experience.)
Little things matter
It was a cold autumn Friday in May. A little hamlet of Jeetho was mourning the loss of Al. The tiny hall was filled with mourners who paid their last respects to this gentle human being. All death is heart-rending, but sudden deaths overwhelm the loved ones left behind. The service was intimate and earnest. The words of Al’s best friend Finton resonated deeply in everyone’s heart. “Al taught us little things truly mattered. He didn’t change the world, but the world was a better place because of Al’s existence.” Al’s partner Tamsin walked behind his coffin slowly and respectfully. As the coffin was carried outside of the hall, the sky cleared and the ray of sunshine shone over the coffin. When the hearse was about to drive off to a private burial, the sharp call of a kookaburra pierced the air – a fitting end to a man who loved the earth so much.
Possum’s eyes
I was pruning the overgrown protea tree when I heard the faint tapping noise. I couldn’t figure out where the noise was coming from. The only place I could think of was from inside the bird box nearby. Those boxes were placed by the previous owner of the house who wanted to bring more birds into the garden. I climbed up a ladder and looked inside. Soon a pink nose appeared, and a set of curious eyes were staring at me. They were a possum’s, probably a ringtail. Those big eyes triggered memories of my late nephew. When Hiroshi and his younger brother Kenji visited us in Elsternwick 20 odd years ago to attend our wedding, one night Robert took them to Hopetoun garden just opposite our place. We carried a torch to spot possums in the trees. They had never seen this Australian creature before. When we saw the big eyes of the possums looking at us, the boys were surprised and excited. I can almost hear their voices now trying to pronounce the English word possum repeatedly with excitement. It was many moons ago, and my nephew is long gone. I glanced at the bamboo that I planted on his first birthday after his passing. The pain of the loss swallowed me up even after so many years. As I looked into possum’s eyes alone in my garden, I pined for my late nephew.
I was given a few poppy seedlings in the spring of 2018. They were slightly different from the dainty, delicate Californian poppies I was growing in my garden. They had jagged edged leaves, and grew very strong. They stood up straight and the flowers were amazing. The colours of the petals were deep and intense and had a velvety texture. Every morning a couple more buds opened and I enjoyed spotting new flowers. Sometimes I saw bees in the centre of the flower. Although the flowers were spectacular, they didn’t last long. Within a day or two, they closed and the decaying process started. Because they were such beautiful poppies, I was resolute to collect seeds. I was pleased to see pods were forming. Once they were completely dry I collected all the pods, saving them for the following April.
They were the ones I was looking for in my seed box. I selected a labelled Zip-loc bag, and held a firm poppy pod in my hands tenderly. All I need do now is break the pod and release the seeds from chambers inside. I anticipated the abundant supply of seeds. I cut off the top of the pods carefully. Nothing was there. I opened chambers inside. No seeds at all to be seen. This can’t be right.
I continued to break poppy pods almost frantically in search of seeds. This can’t be right. I was almost panicking. This can’t be right. Right then the word “barren” popped into my mind, and pierced my heart deeply. Holding the empty poppy pod in my hand, I was tormented by a simple word ‘barren’. I thought I had dealt with the issue of childlessness in my life enough. I haven’t felt this kind of sharp pain for so long, yet the empty poppy seed pod associated with a word ‘barren’ had broken me to pieces. It hit me like a massive wave when I least expected it. I stood in the kitchen alone and felt the ache intensely. I observed the grief, and waited for it to subside. It did in the end. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, held my aching heart tenderly.
(I still don’t know why those pods didn’t contain any seeds. Maybe the flowers were open such a short period of time they weren’t pollinated, or perhaps all the seeds fell from the tiny windows at the top of the pods. There is no way of knowing why, but the aching yearning for motherhood was real. The pain was true, and I am little tender because of that experience.)
Little things matter
It was a cold autumn Friday in May. A little hamlet of Jeetho was mourning the loss of Al. The tiny hall was filled with mourners who paid their last respects to this gentle human being. All death is heart-rending, but sudden deaths overwhelm the loved ones left behind. The service was intimate and earnest. The words of Al’s best friend Finton resonated deeply in everyone’s heart. “Al taught us little things truly mattered. He didn’t change the world, but the world was a better place because of Al’s existence.” Al’s partner Tamsin walked behind his coffin slowly and respectfully. As the coffin was carried outside of the hall, the sky cleared and the ray of sunshine shone over the coffin. When the hearse was about to drive off to a private burial, the sharp call of a kookaburra pierced the air – a fitting end to a man who loved the earth so much.
Possum’s eyes
I was pruning the overgrown protea tree when I heard the faint tapping noise. I couldn’t figure out where the noise was coming from. The only place I could think of was from inside the bird box nearby. Those boxes were placed by the previous owner of the house who wanted to bring more birds into the garden. I climbed up a ladder and looked inside. Soon a pink nose appeared, and a set of curious eyes were staring at me. They were a possum’s, probably a ringtail. Those big eyes triggered memories of my late nephew. When Hiroshi and his younger brother Kenji visited us in Elsternwick 20 odd years ago to attend our wedding, one night Robert took them to Hopetoun garden just opposite our place. We carried a torch to spot possums in the trees. They had never seen this Australian creature before. When we saw the big eyes of the possums looking at us, the boys were surprised and excited. I can almost hear their voices now trying to pronounce the English word possum repeatedly with excitement. It was many moons ago, and my nephew is long gone. I glanced at the bamboo that I planted on his first birthday after his passing. The pain of the loss swallowed me up even after so many years. As I looked into possum’s eyes alone in my garden, I pined for my late nephew.