Geranium
written by: Klaus Gehling
Repotting her plants, she savoured the quiet rituals of gardening. The vibrant colours and, above all, the earthy scent of the soil and flowers never failed to bring a smile to her face. Gardening guided her through the seasons: February provided structure and balance; in March, she untied the twine from the bushes—an act of letting go. June was for enjoying the rain; October brought falling leaves and the illusion of holding back time.
For years, she had worked as a chemist selling industrial chemicals, a job that required frequent relocation. Each decision to rent a new house hinged on a single question: “Is it possible to garden?”
Years earlier, she had read an eerily beautiful poem by a forensic pathologist who had become a writer. He used to leave a single aster in the abdominal cavity of every corpse. Ever since, asters had found a place in every garden she created. Yet, geraniums remained her favourite. They bloomed for such a long time. A glance at the porch, framed by geraniums—her pride and joy—was enough to put her in a tranquil mood.
But not today.
She was pregnant.
The following afternoon, she sought refuge in the garden. Her stepson, an archaeology student, found her there when he came to visit. She led him through the garden.
“Look at my asters,” she said. “And come, look at the geraniums in the flower boxes on the window sills. Did you know one of those stone planters has been in our family for generations? An ancient heritage.”
He had never cared much for gardening, but he knew how much it meant to her. Seeing her enthusiasm, he smiled. “They’re beautiful, Mum. You really do have green fingers. Let’s take a closer look at that little stone box. Now I’m curious.”
He ran his fingers over the weathered stone. He frowned. He looked again.
“Good Lord…”
“This isn’t a flower trough.”
“It’s a Roman child’s sarcophagus.”
His stepmother answered laconically: “Life and death belong together. I love geraniums.”
“Where’s Dad?”
She hesitated for a second. “He’s with his therapist again.”
When she told Frank she was pregnant, he exploded.
“We’re not having any more kids. I’m not breeding us into poverty.”
After that, silence settled between them. She drank after the children had gone to bed. Frank found reasons to stay away.
She drank until oblivion took over.
Her weight concealed the pregnancy. She rarely left the house.
At twenty-four weeks, she began to bleed. The pain came and went for several days. She ignored it. Then she miscarried.
She was not quite sober when it happened. After the initial shock passed, she cleaned herself up. Then she wrapped the stillborn boy—his skin turning blue, foam at his lips—in a soft cloth and placed him inside the Roman stone coffin beneath the geraniums.
“Bloom, bloom, my love. You’ll learn to love geraniums. Sometimes they smell like Coca-Cola. You would have liked that—all children do.”
Then she softly sang: “Where have all the flowers gone?”
That night she placed the first soft toy on the bedroom shelf. Frank never noticed the bedroom had gained another occupant.
She stopped taking the pill. Soon afterwards, she was pregnant again.
After the birth, the baby—another boy—died of hypothermia. The reason was tragically simple: she was drunk.
She buried her second son beneath a patch of geraniums. She sang. Afterwards, a second soft toy appeared in the bedroom.
Weeks after the second burial, she noticed dog tracks. The paw prints ran along the fence. At night, she heard scratching noises. For days, she checked the flower boxes every morning. Days later, the earth behind the fence was freshly churned up. She searched the garden at night with a torch. Again and again, she checked the Roman child’s coffin.
One day, the dog appeared at the fence. She sealed every gap in the fence.
The geraniums, meanwhile, continued to grow—strong, vibrant, and untroubled.
A year later, a third soft toy found its place on the shelf. This time, Frank noticed.
“What’s this nonsense?” he asked.
“Just a hobby,” she replied.
“How many are you going to collect?”
“I don’t know. They look cosy, don’t they?”
He remained silent. After a pause, he left the room. For him, the case was closed.
Every day, she ran her fingertips over the geranium leaves. This was where her children were flourishing.
“Bloom, bloom, my angels!”
One evening, she came across an article on a new ecological burial method. The concept fascinated her.
Bodies could be frozen with liquid nitrogen, dried, and reduced to a fine organic powder. Mixed with soil, it enriched plant growth. Nothing was wasted. Everything returned to the earth.
She read the article twice. Nothing is wasted. Everything returns to the earth.
She looked out at the geraniums. Now they could truly become one with the geraniums.
Her next child, a girl, died of neglect.
This time, she put her knowledge to use.
When it was over, only a bowl of pale granules remained. She poured them into an old seed tin, lit a candle, and gently worked them into the soil beneath the geraniums, as though she were sowing seeds.
Then she watered the flowers.
“Bloom, bloom, my angels.”
