The Gift
Category C: Highly Commended (2023) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Karen Sargent
The gum tree first pressed its roots into the suburban soil decades ago, long before we purchased the land and placed our footprints upon it. Today, its strong branches extend high above the driveway, filling the expanse of sky at the front of our property with its canopy, providing glorious shade, and safe harbor to any creature seeking refuge among its tapered eucalyptus leaves.
For a long time, we had our suspicions that a tawny frogmouth lived among the boughs, possibly even raising a family, but in all the hours we spent searching for its nest of messy twigs, we never found one. The bird made itself known to us on several occasions, always after dusk. It would swoop, soundlessly, from our tree to neighboring ones on its night-time hunts, or we would spy its silhouette, perched like a gargoyle, on the corner of our roof. Months could pass without any sightings, and we would wonder if the tawny had moved on, but then it would surprise us with another appearance, and we would quietly celebrate its return, humbled that it was choosing to remain a part of our family.
Encircling our giant gum was a patch of earth that proved challenging when we first moved in. With the soil predominantly clay, and the tree’s thirsty guzzling, I mulled over what to plant around the trunk to beautify the space. I called in the help of my father, a keen gardener, and together, we nutted out a solution. We pulled out the existing scraggy bush, raked in new soil, and selected hardy, drought-tolerant natives. Then we held our breath, waiting for the plants to settle. When mondo and lomandra grasses began doubling in size, we were delighted. When the first buds formed on dwarf crepe myrtles and westringia bushes, bringing flitting butterflies and buzzing bees, we knew we had achieved our goal, creating our own little piece of Eden. We continued to nurture, and nourish, watching ‘The Patch’ fill with life.
As we transformed The Patch, we reminisced about the Sunday afternoons when as a child and my father’s shadow, I trailed him around the back yard while he planted and pruned and mulched. Neither of us realised then how much I absorbed, but as his little apprentice, I gained immense knowledge from him: how to grow a healthy lemon tree; to ‘prune in June’ with roses; the secret to turning pink hydrangeas blue. I felt like an equal when trusted to drop seedlings into the little furrows we fashioned, later carrying my plastic pale blue watering can from the tap while Dad lugged a heavier steel one, proffering their first drink. I helped pick vegetables when they were ready to harvest. Dad was most excited digging up his potato crops, passing his finds to me as if each was a precious treasure, and I in turn, brushed off the dirt as if the little orbs were priceless. We raked autumn leaves into piles before tossing them into a wheelbarrow and spreading them onto the flower beds. Across the seasons, I watched my father transform the plain yard into one filled with shape and colour. Working side by side as partners in my garden, we smiled at our shared memories.
There was another topic that often came up in conversation as we laboured.
‘Any sign of the tawny lately, love?’ he would ask.
My father loved these gentle birds. When he sold the family home, once my brothers and I moved out, he lived in a smaller place with its own giant gum, delighted to discover a tawny living in it. We all saw the nest it constructed, and were witness to the bird coming and going over several years, and to Dad’s stories about its quiet companionship. Sadly, one year the tree was blown over in a winter storm, moving the bird elsewhere. Long after that bird had flown, Dad happily continued to help me search my gum when we worked in The Patch. We knew that tawnies could camouflage themselves into the shape of a branch, but if there was ever a nest, it remained well hidden too. Even when we scanned each tree fork carefully, while sitting on the low wall bordering the driveway during breaks, sipping from mugs of tea, we never found what we were looking for.
With time, my father’s age caught up with him. His assistance in The Patch was first to diminish when the manual labour became too taxing, and his visits became less frequent as well. Then, a series of falls and a stroke placed him in hospital. The Covid pandemic had hit almost twenty-four months prior to this, and no visitors were permitted. When Dad began losing his language, and his voice, we relied solely on sparse updates from hospital staff. The emptiness sat like a heavy blanket over all of us. Christmas came and went without him. We felt as drained as the summer earth.
One afternoon in early January, with a heatwave gripping the suburbs, I stepped out of the stuffy house, and stood beneath the gum tree, trying desperately to imagine some relief within its shade. I tilted my face skywards, gazing through the leaves, looking for any sign of clouds indicating a change in the weather. I could not believe what my eyes focused on, high up, directly above me. Large twigs, crudely put together, balancing precariously in a fork of the tree. At last! Here was the proof we had been searching for all these years. I had to tell Dad. The quickest way was by phone, but I had hardly taken a step before I pulled up, as if winded. With the state he was in, and with the world broken as it was, he was unreachable. My news would have to wait. I had never felt so far away from him.
Within a couple of days, Dad was moved to a private ward, and my brothers and I were told that limited visiting was, finally, now possible for us. I sat beside him, holding his familiar long thin fingers in mine. In the hour I had with him, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, I told him of the unexpected discovery of the nest.
‘It’s exactly how we imagined,’ I said. ‘A ramshackle pile of sticks that doesn’t look like it would keep anything safe.’
The steady beeps from distant hospital equipment and his own laboured breathing were the backdrop to my words. I do not know if he heard me.
That night, restless after my hospital visit, and with indoors still airless, I stood under the gum tree once again. I sensed the sweep of wings nearby, passing over my head. My eyesight focused on a small fence in an adjoining yard, and I recognised the familiar stocky shape of the tawny in the darkness. We locked eyes on each other, unmoving, like statues. Then, ever so slightly, the bird’s head moved, and without sound, it flew towards me, gently pouncing at something on the driveway, before alighting on an overhead power line bathed in light from a street lamp. Some little creature was clasped in its beak, but it did not feed. Perhaps the food was for its young. As I watched the bird watching me, I felt a calmness descend on me that I had not felt for months, an easing of tension. The tawny was certainly letting me know of its presence. Was it trying to convey something more I wondered?
When I visited my father the next day, brimming with my latest update, things had changed for him overnight. He was not as cognisant as the previous day, but I still told him of my unexpected visitor the previous evening. I was interrupted when a doctor softly called me outside, to update me about Dad’s condition. I was not ready for his words; I never would be. They should not have surprised me really.
‘We will place your father into palliative care this afternoon.’
I stared back into kind brown eyes, struggling to process what I had heard. My addled brain did manage to compute how unbelievably young the doctor was to be delivering such news to a stranger, and so compassionately too. I wanted to ask him how long Dad had left, but my mouth was cotton wool. The doctor answered my question anyway.
‘I don’t think it will be hours. But it won’t be weeks. A few short days.’
A few short days. All that my father had left from the cards dealt to him 86 years ago. I returned to his bedside, holding his hand until the end of the visiting hour. I left reluctantly, trying not to think too much about my return tomorrow. Perhaps he would be less conscious than today, and I would simply have to deal with that. Living was becoming too hard for him now. My heart was heavy as I drove home.
That night, the longed-for change in the weather arrived. Opening a window to let in the cooler air, I glanced at the power line outside. Sitting on it, in the drizzle, was the tawny. I continued to watch, even as I heard the rain thrumming more heavily on the roof. The poor bird soon looked soaked, huddling into itself, clasping the wire tightly as it swayed in the increasing wind. But still it perched there. I was the first to move away, and as I took one last look at the drenched creature, I sensed that it was going to stay there all night, keeping watch over me.
Just after midnight, I awoke, immediately aware of two things. Firstly, the rain had stopped. Secondly, my phone was ringing in the study. I answered it on the fourth ring, one split second allowing me to compose myself before answering, as I recognised my brother’s name as the caller.
‘Is there news?’ I asked breathlessly.
He relayed that a doctor had informed him that Dad had passed away. I crumpled to the floor, the phone still to my ear, and that is where my husband found me. He held me while I cried my first soft tears. My head was reeling with how quickly the end had come; Dad had only lasted ‘hours’ after all. Somehow, we managed to make plans to meet later in the day, and I hung up, heartbroken. Through my grief however, an image of the tawny came into my mind, as it had looked earlier that evening. Wet, cold, but also stoic; showing me that a strength can be found within, even when the worst in life hits. The bird’s return at this time could not just be a coincidence. Somehow it was connected to my father, I was sure.
Late morning, my head cloudy after little rest, I set off to meet my brothers. As I passed the gum tree, my eyes were drawn to a fleck of colour on the ground at its base. It was a mottled feather, from the tawny. I picked it up, stroking the soft vanes.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, glancing at the nest.
The ache for my father was raw, but a sense of peace came from the understanding that gentle surprises await us in life. Sometimes, they require great patience to be discovered, and a little luck, like the nest in the gum tree. Sometimes they need to be unearthed, like the potatoes waiting to be pulled from the darkness of the soil. Sometimes they are handed to us generously, a precious offering to be embraced, like the return of the tawny at that time.
I carried the feather with me through the difficult days and weeks that followed. I have it still, sitting on a shelf on my desk: a reminder of a great man, a connection between a father and daughter, and a tangible symbol that even in grief, miracles are possible.