1.09.2008

I remember taking on the back garden like a machete-man takes on the jungle, all flailing limbs and determination. Somewhere near the back, half strangled by a honeysuckle gone ferral, was a quince tree my mum had planted and trained up against a wall. Standing there in weak march sunshine, sweaty and scratched and tired and triumphant, I noticed the plant ties she must have put there once and I felt close to her like I haven't since before she died, since I was a child nestling against her on a sunday morning with the smell of sleep and instant coffee.