My life came up to me and said
‘I want to ask you about courage.’
It wasn’t a good time.
I was kneeling at the iris bed.
I’d been waiting weeks to do this –
to not think about anything
but the irises and my need
to free them of all
the nettles and wild grasses,
my need to cut a border,
look out the window
and feel a deep satisfaction
at the sight of the dark dug-over soil,
broken now and open,
ready for the rain to enter,
for the green sheaths to push up,
unfurl their purple flags to the air.
‘Do you think you have more
because of the years or less?’
And I looked at my life as I’ve always done
– askance, sceptical – and said:
'I’m not sure I ever had it.
I’m not sure you asked for it.
Things happened that made me
sad as the next person
but my choices were clear to me
and I was always able to make them.’
‘Do you know how lucky you are?’ my life said,
placing a hand on my shoulder
as I looked down and scraped my trowel with a stick.
I have no idea why the tears came.
I didn’t know who to thank
or if even thanks were due –
surely not to my life who,
I could see now, was simply passing by.