TO WATCH YOUR GARDEN GROW, 2022
To watch your garden grow. To see another day. To watch the sunrise through the blinds in the wee hours of the morning, to hear the koels call. To your waking, washing the dishes, getting the paper, pacing. I imagine you in all those spaces you once called your home and yet, this is all I have – imagination, and the fragments of memories. but what good is a memory of it only exists in my mind?
This piece is made in remembrance of the ones we love who have gone before us to the Great Unknown. This is for the grandparents we wish we could talk to, the fathers and mothers we wish we knew, the young who left us too soon.
This one, for me, is for my grandpa. There is a grief that grows, I have learnt, steadily small in the immediate aftermath of loss, then blossoming through the landscapes of the present in which I can no longer find you. your absence claims more territory with each passing day. There is a grief that even time does not heal. what I’d give for just one more day with you. I wish you were around to see another sunrise, to watch you read the morning paper again, to watch you watch your garden grow.
This piece is made in remembrance of the ones we love who have gone before us to the Great Unknown. This is for the grandparents we wish we could talk to, the fathers and mothers we wish we knew, the young who left us too soon.
This one, for me, is for my grandpa. There is a grief that grows, I have learnt, steadily small in the immediate aftermath of loss, then blossoming through the landscapes of the present in which I can no longer find you. your absence claims more territory with each passing day. There is a grief that even time does not heal. what I’d give for just one more day with you. I wish you were around to see another sunrise, to watch you read the morning paper again, to watch you watch your garden grow.