Tony, low on the ground, looking up at me, squinting in the sun,
"You are changing Jase. You must. You are always changing."
He should know. He works with plants. He's a gardener. He works with change all
the time - the weather, the internal chaos of plants, the stems, leaves, petals, the
broad bulk of the tree thickening. He's worked with my mother's gardens for over
ten years now. The ridiculous activity of working the garden to the point of beauty
and loveliness and then we'd change house and he'd begin again.
He's had more than ten years to notice me grow, change, learn, get taller - longer…
In all that time the absurdity of his endeavour must have occurred to him. And he's
happy with our old cat, the unfriendly one, that always played with him in the
garden. That cat that died two years ago!
Perhaps that's why I heard his voice with such authority and knowing. Why even
though he was crouching he seemed to be standing, looking me in the eyes, at eye
level with the authority and knowing, the wisdom of gardens and moving. That's
why I think he can say something like that. Because he is in possession of the absurd
wisdom of my mother's gardens. "You are changing Jase. You must. You are always
changing."
I felt so bad when he told that to me. I felt bad because I shouldn't have been looking
at him low down and squinting up at me in the sun, delivering wisdom.
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