Monday 27 July 2015

The Japanese Maple

It was one of those perfect days, like the song. Dad was gone fishing and I suggested to Mum that we go to the Botanic Gardens for the afternoon. I needed to let Eoin burn off the endless energy that three-year-olds seem to have.

The Botanic Gardens was at it's best. Every plant had it's place and every corner had life bursting out of it.  I had just developed a small interest in gardening and suggested that we go to the Japanese garden.

My son flittered around the little paths and streams in the garden as my mother and I sat on a bench. I noticed a Japanese maple tree and I waxed lyrical about the delicate leaves and how much I would like to buy one.

"I had a Japanese maple tree once, you know. I went on holidays when you were eighteen and asked you to water it.  You were at your 'eye-rolling' stage and it was dead when I got home," Mum declared wryly.

"Sorry Mum," I chortled.  "I've no recollection of that at all."  We watched Eoin as he bent his little body over to stare into the stream and put his fist around a stick to investigate the mud.  A perfect day.

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