Remembering

Plants in the Sun

Tuesday 12 March, 2013

I’m at the back of my house, sitting on a toppled unused plant sack packed with dried earth and with grass sticking out, while my cat, Torochi is pooping on the heap of ash beside me. Surrounding me is an explosion of teeming vegetation, green, variegated, tangled, and wild – mostly, because mother has been growing various plants, and the shrubs are flourishing alongside them.

Our reclaimed swamp palm land has always been fertile. Chuck a seed on any damp soil and it will likely grow. Papaya, sugar cane, Pumpkin, and Jackfruit are some of the fruit trees that have sprouted not by design.

My home is the remaining bastion of uncultivated terrain within a kilometre of the main town and our ramshackle old house is its spooky sentinel. This robust and untamed landscape include a bank of mangrove palm trees along the riverside and a crush of elephant grass, whose blades reach heights taller than my five foot six. I’ve always liked nature, the sight of Her creation. The weather however, is a different matter.

Whoa, a whiff of Torochi’s buried pooped hits my nose.

I’m outside right now because the evening air is inviting. I’ve been cooped up inside the house all day to escape an oppressive heat. Lack of sleep has made me cranky, and the stifling weather rendered my siesta short and unsatisfying. The crickets have been robustly chirping lately so I’d say this is the summer version of the tropics, or as dad aptly describes it – the dry season.

The Korean song I listened to until two in the morning last night ascribe to my sleep deprivation.

*********

I left the reflection at that and went into the kitchen to escape the fading light. This post was written when I had nothing to say. Now I’m posting this for I have nothing else to post. :]

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6 responses to “Remembering

    • Thanks for the reminder, Harry. It was breezy and the air around me smelt of parched grass and burnt soil, slightly earthy. The vegetation had that grassy smell to it. On trees where flowers were blooming or fruits were ripe, like the papaya, the scent was sweet.

      These days it’s not hard to detect cat poop and chicken poop from the chicken pen. 🙂

  1. I used to drool over the papayas that our ship took aboard with the victuals in India. The imported papaya we sometimes find in UK shops lack the aroma and taste of those of long ago.

    • Interesting. Maybe it’s the heat of the tropics that makes the fruit delectable. I find Papaya eaten fresh more tasty than one left at the icebox too long.

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