Fighter of disease

Category A: Highly Commended (2025) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Arnold Mariathas

Marthas hands trembled as she unfolded the brittle envelope, the words written in a familiar script. ‘Plant me when you forget’ it read. A handful of seeds rested quietly in the envelope, like memories. Forgotten ones.

She stared at them for a moment, curiously. Could a few measly seeds be the one thing holding what she was losing? An eerie feeling of doubt tugged at her, but she felt that whoever had given her these seeds had given them for a reason. She didn’t know why, but she had a feeling that the person who had given her the seeds was trustworthy and loving. This gentle nudge pushed her forward. Outside, the small patch of earth sat there, thirstily.

Cautiously, Martha scattered the seeds through the soil, patting the earth gently, as if she was promising to try to remember what the seeds could mean.

Time passed unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but it marched on, like a solider. At first, not even any sign of growth was seen. Yet soon enough, green shoots pierced the dirt. Martha watched the garden slowly grow. Her mind was foggy and broken, but she made it a habit in her heart, to always tend to this garden. She found a sort of rhythm in this daily ritual. As the flowers bloomed open, it felt as if memories were coming back to her. Sunflowers stood tall, with bright, cheerful faces. Roses blossomed open beautifully. As the flowers blossomed open, faint memories and images flickered in her mind. Racing through sunflower fields, smelling the roses, something was coming back to her. Faces, laughs, smells. A small lullaby filled the void in her absent mind.

One afternoon, her daughter, Margaret, showed up to the garden, carrying a shovel and some gardening gloves. At first, Martha couldn’t make out who the girl was. But her warm smile instantly helped her realise who the familiar face was. After a warm embrace, they began to work. Pulling out weeds and tending to the blossoming flowers. Margaret, fixated on some thyme asked her mother, ‘What do you think this one is about?’ Martha delicately felt the herb, trying to dig for something. She immediately thought about her mother. ‘Mother used to make the greatest chicken pot pie, using thyme’, I said. They tended the garden, as much more stories began to reveal. At times, Martha would forget what day it was, and where she was. Yet when she stepped into her garden, her sanctuary, stories flooded of her mother and her childhood. ‘Do you remember planting these?’ Margaret asked. ‘No, but I feel like I would have’, she replied. ‘That’s enough for today’, Margaret said, chuckling.

The garden, filled with vibrant flowers, from poppies to sunflowers, had become more than a patch of earth. It was a bit like a living diary, filled to the brim with memories.

Where loved thrived, beyond disease. In that garden Martha found herself, through every unique flower.