It’s camellia season. We don’t have any at our place. Living on the side of a hill means that most of the soil has washed away and what remain is rocky clods of clay. Only craggy native plants will grow: spiny lomandras gripping on to an embankment, acacias sending giant taproots down between the rocks.
But I see giant camellia bushes on our walks, in the soft soil near the riverbanks. Remnants of practical, 60s gardens. Azealas, agapanthus and those orange spiky plants that look like bells. The camellias plopping to the ground, a carpet of pink and brown mush.
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What have I done during this time? Bleached and dyed my hair, painted my nails orange, worn the same green jumper and two pairs of navy leggings. Planted seeds in egg cartons on the windowsills. Tidied the linen cupboard. Read a book about sibling fighting. Started using an eye cream. Cleaned the laundry. A million small things.
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Yesterday I picked a fistful of lavender and a fistful of yellow buttons. They look garish on the benchtop, shoved in an old milk bottle. The water is already cloudy.
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All the wattles on the property are flowering at once. I don’t know their names. Some look half dead for most of the year before they burst out with giant yellow pompoms, showering pollen in the wind.
The big old one near the shed has tiny yellow blossoms that make the tree look frosted in the sunshine. There is a grove of spiny-leafed ones down the front with long, sausage-shaped flowers, like pale fluffy slugs. In a few weeks they will retreat back into the mass of green.
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Last night, Lee and I lay on the carpet in front of the fire.
‘How good is this?’ He brings me a butternut snap.
‘Yeah. So lucky. Those kids, this place. That baby.’
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