It's tempting to do the 'awkward turtle' movement with my hands as I stand beside my father's bed where he lies, wrinkled hands smoothing out the folds on his new white T-shirt: too big for him now as he steadily loses weight. Restraining myself is a must considering that it's my father, a forced smile on his face to try and fool me into thinking he's no different to the father I know: a gentle man with the kind of spark in his eye like he's about to spray you with water from the watering can in his hands. However, the spark is gone and has been replaced with a dull light as if he knows his days are over, and the chubby belly has gone, replaced with a skinny, frail body that looks as if it's about to shatter into a million pieces.
As I brush the dirt off my favourite leather jacket he begins to speak, in a raspy voice so different to the one I know. "You've been gardening again, I see."
I nod. Being teased a little at school for my ripped jeans and muddy (fake) Uggs I replace every week because they become ruined is a bit of a pain, but I put up with it for years as gardening is, put simply, a passion that I have. All three of my friends (popularity is something I despise; I've found only three people I can really connect with as they don't care about being cool, and because of that reason I love them to pieces) think I'm a total freak for enjoying the feeling of dirt in between my toes, the backache you get from bending over all the time, and the idea of washing my clothes three times a day because of the mud, but those drawbacks are nothing compared to the feeling words can't describe of being outdoors, tending to plants and watching them grow.
"Indigo. Look up." My father interrupts my thoughts with a small cough and a raspy voice like he's been smoking for years, although he hates smoking so much that if I ever smoked he would kick me out of the house. "Listen. When I go..."
"Father..." I whisper despairingly. Death has always interested me, but the idea of my dying father talking about it tears me up inside.
The forced smile is still on his face as he continues as if I haven't said anything. "Indigo, this family you're in has a long chain of farmers, and you know it. Seeing as you love gardening so much, I think it's time you continue this legacy. You'll be a fantastic farmer, producing the kind of fruits and vegetables that bruise when natural, giving people flame fruit to make their mood soar and giving pregnant women apples when they really want a boy. You'll be successful: amazing."
His speech is interrupted by a long sigh as he closes his eyes and blows out his last breath.
Tears well up in my eyes as I pull the duvet cover over my father, and they start spilling over the edge. Ever since my mother died of cancer when I was two my father was the one who took care of me, gave me his love of gardening, gave me all his love, and in return all I had to do was make tea for him (and myself) several times a day. People gave me grief because of my special bond with him, and they teased me because he had me when he was quite old, but I didn't care because he was the best person in the world. Now he's gone, and it's more than I can bear. "No, father..." I whisper, but it's too late. He's gone, probably to another world where he can garden all he wants, but he's slipped away from me and left me on my own.
As I burst into tears and clutch my heart, which feels like it's shattered into about 75000 little pieces, I realise that what he told me was his last wish. I must become a farmer: it's my destiny. Anyway, anything for my father: the one I love the most and would never see again.