I liked it when she put her hand into the human waste extractor and pulled out a clump of you-know-what to mix into the soil. This was the first part of today’s ‘Grow Op’ screening. I could imagine the queue forming on the basement floor by our extractor. If dad was here, he’d be running out of the door with rubber gloves and bucket, then chase mum around the kitchen with it laughing. I’d join the queue later, I was too nervous about my plan.
Our Local Rep finished the show with the standard: “We can all find the best way to grow our food and share this wealth.” He was the only bee-keeper in the block so he was like royalty, but some liked him more than others.
“Doesn’t he look fine in his tight t-shirt,” mum said. “I’d share some wealth with him.”
I pretended to throw-up.
“You need to get out into the open spaces more.” I mimicked her voice.
“I’d get into his open spaces.” She said, raising an eyebrow.
“That doesn’t make sense!” I smiled. It’s been three years since we lost dad. She jokes now, but I know she still only has a heart for him. Back in the day, he asked her out with a bowl of cherries. Classic dad.
Out on the balcony, I put my chin over the warm wooden bar. The first bell chimed. We were ten floors up, plants pushed their way out to the sun on every level. It was 9:30 am, Saturday and people had started their harvests. I could hear the chatter echoing between the towers. Below were the roads full of fruit trees. Pickers waved up from their ladders.
I’d got up early to complete my tasks, too much riding on today. I patted the pomegranates I’d placed in the basket, neatly tucked in with a lot of tomatoes. It was a risk growing them, but they were big, ripe and high in Vitamin C. It had been dad’s idea to plant them.
“JJ, have you put everything in the basket?” Mum called. A tea-towel in her hand, continually wiping away imaginary suds. I thought about the waste extractor and hoped she hadn’t been experimenting.
“Yes. I checked the weight and sizes and made a record in the app. Numbers are good. It puts us ahead on rent, banked points for next month too.” I said.
“That’s great,” she said, “then you can drop a bag of tomatoes down to Mr Barry on the ninth.”
We often helped Mr Barry, he was the only one who grew bananas, even though the plants had to be frost-wrapped for months each year, we were the only block in a three-mile radius to grow them.
The final bell rang, and the conveyors started. The pulleys rattled along every balcony, down to the sorting carts. I watched the baskets move, they’d had a bumper lettuce crop in 10-05. But the moment I had really been waiting for, was to see her.
Immediately below me. I’d saved the best pomegranate for this very moment, for her. She liked to sing to the plants, lines about ‘keeping the bird nets down so the berries don’t frown’. She turned her head up towards me. I gave a tentative nod.
“Coming down” I called and started to lower that one perfect fruit on a length of string.
She moved out of sight for a moment. My throat tightened at the thought of this not happening. My pomegranate dangled in the air.
Then she was back, I watched her struggle with the knots so I loosened the line.
“Up and away,” she said, her voice singing towards me. I reeled it in and caught my breath as she’d attached a sprig of mint to the end. I think it was the scent that made my head spin.
A small piece of paper was taped around the stalk. I sat down between the rows of seedlings and uncurled the paper.
‘Hi, I’m Sato.’ It read. I turned it over, but that was it. ‘Sato’. I said it to myself a few times.
Maybe I’d see her tomorrow at the weekly gathering. I imagined us bumping hands over the nutrient packs. Then I imagined my mum doing the same with the Local Rep and tried to think of something else.
I got out the tablet, looked at the cover picture of dad, wishing he was right. What could be more romantic than a pomegranate? Mint, maybe. No. He was right, it had to be a pomegranate.