Read by Matilda Longbottom

In May 2022, my three brothers, sister, and I were summoned from London to our father’s bedside in Dominica, where he had retired 20 years earlier. Diagnosed with gastric cancer, we planned to spend precious time with him and care for him during his final days.

When we arrived, family members had kindly stocked the fridge, allowing us to focus on Dad. It had been nearly 30 years since we’d all lived together, so we organized meal plans, cooking, and cleaning rosters to manage our time.

A few days later, Uncle Avan, an island farmer, brought us a giant sack of fresh produce from his farm. The 1-meter-high bag bulged with yams, plantains, oranges, green bananas, and other Caribbean staples. We were grateful for this bounty, as it saved us from having to leave Dad and make the hour-long trip to town for supplies.

As our stay drew to a close, we each pondered how to say one of the most profound goodbyes of our lives. While cleaning the kitchen, I noticed Uncle Avan’s sack, now limp and crumpled on the floor. As I picked it up to recycle, I found a shriveled and battered orange-colored root vegetable inside. I called out to Aunty Maureen, who identified it as a taro root and suggested we cook it for lunch. Examining its bruised exterior, I declined with a sympathetic smile.

Aunty Maureen watched me for a moment, then led me into my father’s lush tropical garden. There, she pointed out the large elephant ear plants my father cultivated under the breadfruit and banana trees, explaining that they were taro plants. Suddenly, the little root in my hand took on new significance.

I often sat by my father’s bedside, talking about gardening—his garden, mine, and best practices. When I showed him the root, he smiled faintly and said, “Go home and plant it.” With a playful twinkle in his eye, he nodded before closing his eyes for a nap.

After ensuring it was safe to travel with, I brought the root back to the UK. Wasting no time, I planted it in a large pot filled with peat-free compost and perlite.

In August 2022, my father passed away. A month later, the taro root produced its first large, defiant leaf. I was pleasantly surprised that such a small, humble root could yield leaves so majestic. It became a powerful symbol of my father’s quiet strength, my aunt’s wisdom, and my uncle’s generosity. This little taro root served as a tether during my grief, connecting me to my family, to hope, and to home. ❖

About the Author: Natalie Branston is a teacher and writer who uses her words to promote inclusivity and share her passions for gardening and fiber crafts. She runs the homesteading blog All Homesteading (allhomesteading.co.uk) and lives in a cottage in the United Kingdom with her family, dog, two cats, and a tortoise named Lenny.