An Active Gardener

We sat opposite each other, passing the guitar between us like a rare secret to indulge. A secret that reveals more of itself the longer you spend with it. Interspersed between gentle strums and isolated notes, dulled by muted palm, we spoke of the latest political developments, of football results, of what songs had been in our heads over the last week we had been apart. It was a ritual. Whilst my brother was upstairs, awaking from his slumber, and the morning light seeped through the overgrown bushes and the living room window, we would talk and pass the time.

Its strange, looking back now. At the time I thought nothing of it, other than it being a habitual pattern derived from uncaring circumstance. But those uncaring circumstances often produce the deepest foundations. A chance encounter in the office the beginning of a life-long marriage. The street your parents chose to live only a few houses away from the best friend you never chose to meet. The arbitrary moment of conception for a child you never chose to love. We are governed by the arbitrary, and its a blessing to be so.

It wasn't, and isn't, a friendship. Friendship is intimate, reciprocal, but prone to decay if neglected. It can be left open, vulnerable to the bitter winds of change, the building humidity of unspoken resentment. There is an element of distance, which yet allowed the affection to grow. Like a bud in a sun-starved flower, he would witness my transition from infant, to child, to young adult, to a man. And instead of being a passive onlooker, he was an active gardener. Not in the way of one who waters and wills its direction, but instead whose presence reassures something within the soil itself, that the entity that was growing was indeed a worthy creation. And, most of all, he understood the environment the flower was planted

in. An environment of which he became a vital part.

The steam from the mug by him floated upwards, dissipating into the comfortable air. My brother began to make his way down the stairs as I finished an unpolished Bob Dylan cover, which was broken by his ecstatic shouts of anything which would make this cherished visitor laugh. The sounds of our communal chuckling filled the room.

And, hearing them in my memory, they fill my heart.