Asparagus

We live in a small house with an open door. No front gate or barking dog. Our back fence has a gaping hole in it on one side, through which we chat to our neighbours, and is of the old fashioned timber height on the other, over which, friendly, old Olga throws her scraps to our chooks and we pass her our eggs. 

We have 2 bedrooms, one for us and one for the kids, who wake each other up too early in the morning and sometimes in the middle of the night. And when our many guests come to stay, we pile the kids in our room, or they sleep on the couch, or in a tent in the backyard (the guests, not the kids).

When people come for dinner, or cake, or a movie we all squash in our tiny lounge room, some in the kitchen or on the back deck. We talk late into the night, reminding ourselves occasionally not to wake the kids.
We rent from Tim's Dad and treat the yard as our own, growing trees and shrubs and chickens and the occasional vegetable that survives my neglectful gardening style. (Any plant that can survive only on rain and sun is welcome here.)

And every so often, especially at this time of year, we ask ourselves if we should move, into something bigger, closer to the Uni (where we work in a kind of volunteer chaplaincy role), something with a garage and a dining room and enough space for the kids and the guests and all my fabric.

But of all the good, rich things that we love about our home, it's this asparagus that keeps me here one more year. I planted him a couple of years ago and at the end of each summer, he dies away, last time, I assumed, forever. And each spring, he has returned, reminding me that sometimes I can't know everything that's happening just under the surface. And if I stay just another year, his sweet spears will be ready to eat.