Ben always thought it was silly, the way mum tried to hide it. When he was younger he didn’t understand, but as time went by he could recognise the signs a mile off; back turned, irresponsiveness to questions or a quivering tone in her voice. She also had a tendency to pretend to be busy or suddenly remember some unfinished task that needed completing; any excuse to hide those reddening eyes and escape to the garden.
If his parents had argued, mum would sometimes stay out there until dusk while dad shrouded himself in tobacco smoke. She’d only come back into the house when the light had all but dissolved. On these occasions, Ben would ask her some trivial question just so he could check whether it was all over. Sure enough, her gaze would be clear and soft again as though she’d buried her upset somewhere in the dirt and made peace with the world.
It was a process that Ben accepted as much as any kid does about their parents’ idiosyncrasies. The hitch was that just about anything would cause her to well up; a harrowing news item, an uplifting news item even an orchestral ballad. If was as if she was constantly on the verge, the tipping point, a body brimming with tears just waiting for their cue.
But all these years later, as he knelt at the border watching the tulips dance while his own tears fed the compost, he finally understood.
The neighbours always wondered how mum kept the flower beds looking so good. They accused her, politely; of using fertiliser even though she stuck to organic methods before organic was even a thing. The answer, it appeared to Ben, was simple. Everyone knew that plants absorbed Co2 and gave out oxygen in return. One man’s meat is another man’s poison as the saying goes. Less so was it known that they also drink up our hurt. Mum knew this and she had plenty to give. It seemed there was method in her sadness, after all.
