Hecale
A Portal For Writers
| A Late Bloom On his knees, my father planted his bulbs under a blistering sun. "Dad!" I cried, stepping into his garden, "Where's your hat? Don't you know about skin cancer?" A plastic surgeon, and published, I knew all about melanoma. "Worked in the sun all my life. Never wore no hat," he scoffed. "Like your article said, damage's already done. How you, boy?" "Can't complain. Except I'm no boy. Never knew you liked gardening. Must be hard on the knees." "Did this for hours when I was a boy. Had to! Wasn't no supermarket to go to. Had to plant, water, weed; then pick everything. Me and my daddy, that's what we did. Sorry you and me couldn't. But you were always at the books. Your mother said you were meant for big things. And she was right. College at 16. Then medical school. Then ..." his voice trailed off. "And now, look at you!" he brightened. "Like your shoes." His soil-encrusted index finger tapped the toe of my Gucci. "I'm sorry too." I didn't try to wipe away the smudge. He looked up at me. Then he pulled at the crease of my linen trousers and I was on the ground, next to him. The earth's cool moisture seeped into my knees. He pressed a trowel into my hands and showed me how to dig, plant, and cover his bulbs with the rich earth. We worked side by side. The sun felt warm and good on my back. When we were finished, his hand on my shoulder felt even better. ©William de Rham 2007 |