This reflection by Jennifer Tanti was an entry in The Good Oil 2023 Writers’ Award, which has the dual purpose of supporting and encouraging the development of emerging and published writers.

My mind wanders as we sit in the café. Three of us reminisce about growing up, our family home and, in particular, the garden. To this day, we’re keen gardeners and we animate about our latest purchases, triumphs and failures.

My impression is that of the Garden of Eden. I am small. The garden’s big. There is order and beauty. I see an abundance of fruit and produce. It’s spring and the leaves are green and lush. The almond tree is in full bloom. I sit in the fork of its branches and allow the soft perfume to seep into my soul. Pure white petals envelope my young self. I am silent, we all are in this world that reaches to the sky with straight or gnarly arms dressed in their spring finery.

We, children sit under a passionfruit vine. Rich, velvety ripe fruits hang like lightbulbs above us. We cut the skin to reach the juiciness that lies beneath. It drips down our suntanned faces. They’re so good! We’re always free to roam, pick and eat at will. I avoid the apples. They always seem to have squirmy visitors living inside, so I opt for the nectarines or figs instead. Ahh, the sweetness of it all.

I listen to the voices of the trees as we adventure along bush tracks. They whisper and sometimes call out on windy days. We have plenty of time before we go home for dinner. Clouds hum above. They billow, huge and fluffy or barely tinge the sky with feathery brush strokes. On days when the trees call out, the clouds scowl grey and black. Their hum becomes a roar.

My companions’ chatter slowly enters my head again and I come back to the conversation. It surprises me because it contradicts all that’s occupied my mind these past few moments. I tell of my memory.

We’re back to the garden of our childhood. They see beauty too, but at a cost. It is hard work for the whole family. They see trees that are tortured by over-pruning, burning off and lack of knowledge on how to care for them. Weeds abound and backs hurt in pulling them up. I am silent and confused. Did we grow up in the same place?

Of course we did, we’re sisters. I wonder at my memory, the emotion it evokes and whether my mind has adopted the version that gives me most joy and comfort. I speak up to say I do remember the hard work, hot days, sunburn and packing away the rakes at dusk after what seemed to be a very long day.

I agree that it was hard. We were expected to help. That’s just the way it was back then. I maintain that my memory is exactly that, my memory, the voice I carry within. I do not dispute theirs. They continue. They tell of things I never knew. Their voices come from deep within.

Again, I am silent. I hurt for them. I hear different emotions, strong ones, sometimes sad, or even angry. They’re not of my experience or recollection. My sisters are free at this table, coffee cups in hand, to bring their gardens before us. They have thorns and sweat and suffer wounds from pruning. Am I living in a dream world? Was I drifting in a mind-created Eden back then? Mmm … that’s something to ponder.

Someone pulls out her phone and presents her latest photos. We haven’t spent time like this for a long while and we effuse over her pretty papillon, its snout covered in ‘puppacino’ froth at a garden café. The other presents family shots of holidays and again we smile at the adventures they’ve had.

I reach for my phone. I’m the only one with grandchildren and they’re front and centre, laughing around a birthday cake. We all smile, we sigh. We’re home to ‘today’. We fix one another’s worlds with long conversation and generally rejoice in being together.

Our afternoon continues in easy, familiar comfort and we take ourselves into the sunlight. Shoppers pass us by. We pass them. They’re strangers and have their own stories. I’m sure their memories are as diverse as ours.

Thoughts of the outing sit with me still. I’m not confused or even concerned at what enlightened me that day. It’s history, our shared history, yet the voice of memory is unique to each one of us. I heard my sisters as never before. In the quiet of my own world, I see my voice as quieter than some but just as important. My wish is that all our gardens are filled with a memory that we are free to bring forth without judgment or derision.

Let’s hear one another. Let’s truly appreciate the lilies and roses alongside the cactus and thornbushes. May you, like me, find the voice that lives within.