We don’t see the pots until we clear the ivy. And there they are, waiting to be woken, as if no time has passed. Who knows how long they’ve been there. I suggest forty years because that’s almost as long as he can remember. He thinks even longer. He remembers the greenhouse full with orchids and we can see an orchid there still. But he’s not interested like I am. I weigh up the pots as if I’m on a one-woman archeology dig: eight in this pile near the front left leg of the wooden bench; three here by my leg. Perhaps fifty all up. Should I grid the site?
The pots are grey-white and rough; rims the size of a dinner plate. All the same size. They make me think of a courtyard on the Amalfi Coast among lemon trees, geraniums and bouganvillia.
Perhaps this stack near my foot is home to a centipede or a Funnel Web. I pick one up with gloves on just in case. No to the spider; yes to the centipede. I part the ‘pede from its pot.
I take off the gloves because this pot needs to be touched. I hold the top edge with my right hand and place the palm of my left around its middle. It’s a comforting roughness. (Another person may not spend as long in the holding).
I turn it upside down. It looks like the hole at the base has crumbled over time. (My mum used to keep old shade cloth to line her pots. I think she learnt this from her mum. My potting legacy).
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