Root System

I forgot to die

The school bell echoes into my garden indicating only lunchtime, and I am tipsy and inhaling a party-sized bag of Chicken Twisties.

The land I purchased three years ago is close to the local school and, depending on the wind's direction, the bell punctuates the day as I garden. I don't need a sundial. The school bell tells me the time when I'm lost in soil;

8am- Start of class.

10am- Recess.

1030am- Class recommences.

12pm- Lunch

1pm- Back to class.

330pm- End of school day and time for me to pack up the tools.

This garden saved my life.

The week before I bought it, I was “Googling” painless ways to die on my lunch breaks at work. In between suicide research, my mask displayed professionalism as I served at the hospital, but when I was alone, I gathered information about how to end it all because my partner had been murdered and I was joining him. I would murder myself to be with him, but no one could know because they would stop me.

Then, the day after I tried to drown myself in the sea, I saw a For Sale sign on a small block of land close to where he had died. A flock of white cockatoos played about in the tall gum tree in the middle of the land, white feathers tussling on the wind like ethereal rain, and by the next day I had made a formal offer to the real estate agent.

I had little money, but enough to qualify for the loan.

For the next three years, I forgot about murdering myself and injected life into plants.

I created a habitat garden for Australian wildlife. An abundance of bottlebrushes and grevilleas, leptospermums and banksias. Native grasses. Sunflowers. Life buzzed everywhere. My farmer parents said they'd never seen such a garden in such a short time. What is your secret?

Grief. I poured all of my grief into this dirt. The plants took it on and shot up towards the sun.

As I sit here with beer and chicken salt on my fingers, blue faced honeyeaters land on the branches and dance about the flowers. And only yesterday, while I was packing up the things that don't have roots; pots, bird baths, ornaments, a young boy on his bike stopped and asked if he could please have some flowers to take home for his mum. Together, the young boy and I gathered native flowers I grew, and I watched him ride off down the street holding blooms that he has no idea saved my life, to gift them to the person who gave him life.

I never grew a flower before I bought this place.

I never considered the community beneath my feet. Earthworms and roots and oxygen and nutrients, all of it buzzing while I was walking around being human.

I became the grandest gardener.

My own mum, who lives on the land with citrus orchards and vegetable gardens, has implemented the things I have done into her own pride and joy. Watching her adopt the things I have done should make me happy, but I am numb.

I am as numb now as I was the day you died.

Because by the end of today, I will no longer own this block of land.

The builder collapsed, so my house will not proceed; the constant delays amount to years which have now priced me out of ever building my cottage here. So, I am forced to sell.

I swig more beer and watch white butterflies reflect sunlight as they dart about grevillia.

A rogue feather floats from the gum tree, offering companionship.

Sunbeams sneak through crooked branches, casting majestic shadows across the Fairhill Golds and purple fountain grass.

I fell in love with that grass; adore the pink puffs dancing in the breeze like fairy floss. I remember blowing dandelion fluff into the wind when I was little, and now I sit here listening to kids laughing at the school nearby while I drink beer and watch purple fountain grass catch the sunlight and I cry and cry and cry.

It's not all bad, I suppose.

I will use the profit to move to the outback, far away from everyone I know.

I can live amongst the red dirt and cockatoos and never ending blue sky. The sunsets out there are like no other in the world.

Outback spirit is as powerful as my dead lover's.

I will focus on mediumship and healing and soil and life. I will recreate this garden.

♡

I kind of miss the year after you died.

I know how crazy that sounds.

But the year immediately following your violent killing, you never left my side.

I felt you next to me every night and even though I fell asleep wailing into my pillow, I felt your presence.

You turned lights off and on.

You caused electricity blackouts.

I could literally hear your voice.

You touched me.

I felt it.

I dreamt of you.

When I screamed out to you, you appeared.

I have needed you more than ever these past six months.

And I have not felt you.

There were some signs, but I didn't feel you.

You sent small reminders that you love me, but after a moment, you were gone.

I don't know what happens three years after death.

One thing is for certain, the soul advances somewhere, because you haven't been close by lately.

I really fucking needed you.

And I miss you.

I miss the haunting.

HAUNT ME AGAIN, BABE.

My heart is telling me I will find healing in the Outback. And I endeavour to hone in on nothing but mediumship, and I will try discover where spirit goes after three years.

I'd love to know where you are.

I don't blame you though. Even I need a break from myself. What a misery guts I am!

Goodbye, garden.

Goodbye craziest three years of my life.

Goodbye, everything I have known.

I found a home Outback 🧡