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What remains

18/8/2019

16 Comments

 
PicturePhoto: 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. 

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. 
16 Comments
Phyllis Papps
18/8/2019 11:03:51 am

Etsuko, such a beautifully written piece.
Your analogies and vivid descriptions with pods, poppies, proteas and possums is so moving when related to the death, pain, pining and loss of loved ones. Then after that, the grief that follows.
You put so much heart in whatever you write.
But never forget that there is always re-growth and re-generation in Spring. Then the colour green is seen everywhere.

Reply
Etsuko Yasunaga
18/8/2019 02:40:24 pm

As always I appreciate your kind words and wisdom, Phyllis. I wrote those three pieces as my observation practice, but realised anyone who went through the similar experience may resonate with my writing, as grief is such a universal feeling. If they can find solace through my writing, I'm at peace.

Reply
Mel Marks
18/8/2019 04:05:10 pm

Etsuko, the original seedlings you planted may have been ‘hybrids’, (biologically engineered) which would mean you are unable to produce plants from the seed you thought you might have saved. Even possibly that the seedlings did not produce seeds because of their hybrid status.

Reply
Etsuko Yasunaga
18/8/2019 04:56:03 pm

Thanks Mel for your expertise. I wondered about something like that, too. In fact I asked several people who are in horticultural field to get the fact straight. The point is what I felt at the time of experience, and it just threw me off balance, and I thought it was worth writing.

Reply
John Coldebella.
18/8/2019 07:57:26 pm

Etsuko, as a gardener, I am very familiar with the ache of which you speak, having experienced it many times. Having said that, there have also been times when, having accepted the loss, I have later discovered that a seed from a lost plant was deposited somewhere else on my property, and the joy in the discovery of a second chance is beyond words. Like loss, it is confined to the vocabulary of the heart. Regarding poppies, I never pick a pod for seed storage till it has dried out. The seeds take time to form. Give the pod a shake now and then till you hear the seeds rattling around inside, then pick. At this point, I also tip out some pods where the plant was growing. They come up like weeds. Be at peace, Etsuko. You're not alone. Ps. There's a cherry guava and sage brush in my garden with your name on it.

Reply
Etsuko Yasunaga
18/8/2019 09:24:25 pm

Oh John, your words lift my spirit. At the time of observation, I was absorbed in my own sorrow, and as I wrote, the pain was real. I am a content person at peace nowadays, and grief no longer define me. Instead, grief is an integral part of who I am. It's time for me to visit your garden soon. Thank you so much for your wisdom.

Reply
Ian Thomason
19/8/2019 08:47:33 am

My dear Etsuko,
Such beautiful words and so eloquently put ..conveys such a rich tapestry of emotions.
So wish I could just wrap you up in my arms till the heartache dissipated. I know grief is a journey travelled alone.. eased by others.
You have such a beautiful soul and an inspiration to us all. Thank you for sharing with us.

Reply
Etsuko Yasunaga
19/8/2019 09:55:58 am

Your words melt my heart, Ian. Such compassion and empathy from another beautiful human being. You are right. Grief is a personal journey, but by sharing my version with others, I feel the load is lightened. After all I write to connect with others. If my writing can shed light or provide insight to anyone who care to read my words, I am most grateful. Thank you sincerely.

Reply
B.Stevens
19/8/2019 04:40:57 pm

Etsuko-san,
Vous avez beaucoup de talent pour exprimer vos profonds sentiments avec des mots qui touchent aussi le lecteur.
Cet article est magnifique!
Bravo!
A bientôt.

Reply
Etsuko Yasunaga
19/8/2019 06:40:07 pm

Oh chère Bernadette. Merci beaucoup pour vos gentils mots. Je rêve de pouvoir exprimer mes sentiments avec éloquence en français un jour.

Reply
Lynne Craven
20/8/2019 04:54:48 pm

Etsuko, your writing touched my heart. You're a very brave and talented lady.

Reply
Etsuko Yasunaga
20/8/2019 06:10:01 pm

Dear Lynne, I'm not sure about me being brave, but one thing for sure is that I am open. Observing and writing what happens inside and outside of my world comes very naturally to me. Everyone has different mediums to express their creativity. I'm glad something in my writing resonated with you. Thank you for taking time to read my writing and for your kind words.

Reply
Naomi
8/9/2019 01:53:01 pm

Such beautiful words Thank you Etsuko

Reply
Etsuko Yasunaga
18/9/2019 12:18:47 pm

Thanks Naomi for your interest in my writing. As for my book take time to savour each piece, dipping in and out whenever you feel like reflection.

Reply
Verena
18/9/2019 12:13:56 pm

Hi Etsuko, wonderfully written. The way you write in English will definitely get you to do the same in French.
I have to agree with Bernadette. Your way expressing feelings and experiences are very beautiful.

Reply
Etsuko Yasunaga
18/9/2019 12:26:55 pm

Oh thank you Verena for your kind words. 'Beauty' is an integral part of any creative pursuit. If any form of creativity doesn't evoke strong feelings, it's a waste of time and energy in my opinion. As for French, it's still a pipe dream. I appreciate your encouragement.

Reply



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