HOME

There was a plant in my mother’s garden that was older than me, than all of us. It reminded me of home more than the house did. It grew and blossomed every year, like clockwork, and mum made us prune it.

We grew up and left, but it stood there still, fighting with the most resilient woman I have ever known. It grew wild when she died, wild as if its tormentor had finally gone, and it could now grow free. It won, and blossomed the next year like it had a story to tell. When my brother moved in to the house, his wife had it uprooted.

‘Pictory’ — A picture and a story speaking of and from each other.

Story — Morris K.

Picture — Kimani Wandaka