Garden of Memories

“Why is that?” his son asked all curious, eyes shining like the brightest stars in the sky. 

“It is only after someone passes away that a plant is born. Its flowers bloom from the strength of their memories. Your father is not just a gardener son, he is a keeper of unheard whispers.”  – his voice was calm; yet making his sense of achievement substantially clear. 

“What about the plants that bear no flowers papa?” – his son asked.

“Well son, memory is a beautiful thing. Nobody knows why some are stronger than the others, they just are. I tell you, the business of memories is not an easy affair. Let’s just say some are not remembered well enough for their memories to bloom.”

His son would watch him talking to the plants for long hours from afternoon till the evening. He would caress the leaves and smell the flowers, as he would speak to them, reassuring them that even if all else failed, Mr.Rhendron would remember them till his last days. 

What he never mentioned to his son was what he was giving away – maybe because; even he himself did not understand much of it. Losing oneself is like that – slow and painless, yet brutally everlasting.

One evening, as Mr.Rhendron was having one of his usual conversations, his son called out to him, “ papa.”

He turned back to look at his son, only to stare at him for a few seconds before asking, “Who are you? Have I seen you before?”

The business of memories was not an easy affair after all.