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ONE FOR YOU AND ONE FOR ME.
by R. F. POOLE

I put my hands on the work surface in Mom's kitchen and leaned forward to look out of the window. The overnight rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. I thought how much brighter and more refreshed everything looked after the long spell of dry weather had broken.

I leaned further forward as if trying to smell the flowers in the window box outside but then a tear dropped into the bowl.

Oh come on,' I muttered under my breath. Don't start crying now.'

After blowing my nose on a handy bit of kitchen towel my eyes focused again on the newly planted fuschia I had given to my Dad just a few days ago. I had taken my parents out for lunch at a local garden store and then, leaving Mom to finish her coffee, had wandered off with him to see what plants were for sale.

We had done this many times before. Over the years Dad and I, both keen gardeners, had developed a kind of family tradition. We would thoroughly discuss what was available then choose what each would buy. Having paid for the plants we would then solemnly exchange them as a gift to each other.

One for you and one for me.' Dad would always say with his wrinkly smile.

He had always taken a lot of time and trouble to get his patio pots and indeed the rest of his garden just right.

I'm looking for layers of color,' he would say as I watched him weaving in the pelargoniums, fuchias, petunias and trailing lobelia.

Sometimes he concentrated on foliage plants like his favorite hostas or heuchera. Other boxes, troughs and pots would have ferns, perhaps herbs or even some mini-vegetables.

Together we had dug a pond, planted it up and surrounded it with more containers filled with osteospermum, geranium, verbena and, a special favorite, penstemon. The frogs and other wildlife found their own way in, of course. I reckon I inherited Dad's talent and our joint efforts had kept his garden looking spectacular.

My gaze moved on across the little patch of lawn which had been perfectly trimmed as usual with a beautifully cut edge. I remembered asking him once how he always got the curve so straight.

He had laughed and said, Straight curves? That's a new one on me.' Then winking at Mom had continued, I suppose I've always had an eye for the perfect curve.'

The flowers in the border beyond the lawn were like old friends to me. In fact many of the same ones were in my

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