Tomorrow the mesh fence will go up, and the land will no longer be ours. Today I’m on my knees, dirty, a battered straw hat on my head. I can’t care if it’s the right season or time. It’s today or never.
Bare hands. Bare hands with soil-filled fingernails, hunting in the dirt. They’re too small to find with gloves.
Must be close…AH! Bingo. The slight teardrop of a freesia bulb, and another, and I start filling the tin bucket till my fingers can find no more.
Come spring, my grandfather’s freesias will flower again, keeping him still with us.