toast for tea

When my father takes a cutting into his magic gardener hands, roots and buds burst out of each end before he’s had a chance to scratch his ear. When he plants it in his garden and pushes the dirt down around it with his green thumb, he has to step back quickly, in case he’s knocked sideways by a flourishing branch. Sometimes he gives me one of his cultivated cuttings. I plant it, tend it lovingly, protect it from marauding chook beaks and pilfering possums. But I’ve seen it happen, it starts to wilt before I’ve even turned my back to make the call to tell him it’s in the ground. It’s usually dead within the week. Which of course is an exaggeration. Make that a couple of days. Unlike my father, my thumb is not green. I have his nose, his hair, his eyes, his liking for cockles in brown vinegar and pepper, but not his green thumb. My favourite spring fragrance is that of the humble freesia. On my walk with the dog this morning my olfactory receptors were wooed by the scent of freesia. I w

It is impossible to concentrate. When you know your child is on the operating table, anaesthetised, tube down her throat, and soon to have seven teeth hacked and yanked from her mouth, how can you? You look at your watch again. Wonder which tooth he’s up to, the oral surgeon who casually told you in his rooms about the nerve that runs close to the extraction site, the one that controls taste and sensation in the lips. You feel guilty that you didn’t take her to the hospital yourself. Even though her father was happy to take time off and she was happy either way. You time-travel to two hours ago and watch them drive off, waving. Feel the gut-wrench of staying behind. Everything is ready for when they return. You’ve filled the fridge with mush. You’ve googled mushroom soup recipes and watched a how-to video. You’ve diced the ingredients and cooked dinner for yourself and the hollow legged man-child. You’ve got the ice pack cooling in the freezer. This could be a time when you could catch