Heroine

She is not very tall. But she is elegant in her own way. Everything about her is tapered. Delicate. Decked out in her green and black, she does not demand attention like some others do. Rather, she is subtle. Strong. A quiet achiever.

I have neglected her for so long now that until last week I believed she was dead. So obsessed with writing I have become, I wrote all through winter and didn't think much about anything else. I've become a strange creature in hibernation. But now the cycle of the seasons has turned, arching into the first days of spring. A shocking red rose stuck her head out yesterday from amongst the overgrown chaos, and I was suddenly reminded I had a garden.

A few weeks ago, I had given the garden a cursory glance. I couldn't see her. The chillies had died. So had the lemongrass. A mercy dash could not have even saved the herbs. Parsley ruled the garden with a dictatorial air, trying to exert control over what was left and winning. Spiky vine had wound his way around almost every plant in the small patch, chocking them mercilessly. It must have been a slow and painful death. Now he too was dying. And still, I was heartless amidst the tragedy. I'll start again soon, I told myself.

Red rose was angry. She screamed from her lofty, unpruned stem. Guilt struck like a dagger in the heart. Tools and gloves were retrieved from the laundry.  I hacked my way through the jungle, forgetting the gloves, my fingers scratched and bleeding, sweat pouring down in torrents. Spiky vine put up a good fight. He made me bend and stretch and swear. But in the end, I won, and he was thrown unceremoniously into the compost heap. Weeds and thistles went the same way.  So did the chillies, lemongrass, and many other plants. Aloe vera had survived, but then she has an excuse, being ninety-nine per cent water. She winced, however, when I amputated her lower limbs, brown and withered. Bits of fennel and Chinese cabbage went sailing onto the heap. A no-fuss, no tears funeral.

Ashes to ashes dust to dust, plant to decay, decay to soil. Back where they had once started. Released from their winter of discontent. Bits of her too. Dead. Shrivelled. Her roots came out easily.

I bent down to cut another cord of spiky vine, hiding under some parsley. I moved the parsley aside. And there she was. Tiny and new. She had survived. Just a few leaves were hanging on for life. Struggling where the others had simply given in. Not even in the same spot I had planted her.

I made it my mission to nurse her back to life. I think the others were jealous of the attention she was receiving, so drastic action had to be taken. A delicate surgical operation was performed. She was moved from the general ward into intensive care.

Fully privately insured, she had a pot of her own on the back veranda. In the semi-shade, she convalesced with the dill and the chives, the coriander, and my spoilt animals. Plenty of fresh air, water, rest, and fertiliser. Just what the doctor ordered. In the past few days, I've noticed that coriander has been leaning to one side, straining to get a better look at the newcomer and wanting to know her story.

I have been using her for years. In salads. Stir-fries. Steamboats. And I have just realised I don't even know her name. She is a type of Vietnamese mint with a taste and smell like nothing else I know. I have asked all my Vietnamese friends. Nobody knows her name. I have described her in detail. Oh, yeah, that one, they say. Some of them have her in their gardens. Others buy her in the fruit shop. But nobody knows her name. I've eaten her in Vietnam, in Sydney, in Europe, and Asia.

Her identity has become a priority. Funny the things that suddenly become important in a life. In the past few days, she has flourished in the pot, holding her head high and keeping counsel with the others on the veranda. When she is discharged, out of the pot and back in the garden, I promise to look after her, this nameless, exotic creature. She has amazed me. Green and black. Perfumed and powerful. The quiet achiever. The survivor.

In my garden, she is the heroine, indeed.