Tree, canola, memory

mother always remembers*

In the photograph, the canola field stretches out like a foreign invader on Wiradjuri country. The land feels bright, unnaturally so, forced to wear a colour that doesn’t quite belong. The dark and distant trees are pushed to the edges of the fence line, observing in silence. Likely Sugar Gums or Grey Box, these trees form a windbreak, their straight trunks standing firm against the open stretch of the paddock. They have seen this all before. Watching patiently, knowing this crop isn’t here to stay.

I remember the smell. Sharp, pungent, cloying. It made my skin crawl as a kid, this alien scent that didn’t belong in the air. My white step-grandfather called it rapeseed. At the time, I didn’t think about the word, only the discomfort. But now, the name feels ironically fitting. The violence of that word clings to the earth as though naming the crop was an act of force. We were supposed to consider it progress, farming, and something good for the land. But I never felt that way. It felt like something alien invading the ground, making a stench you couldn’t ignore.

The trees in the distance remain. They are pushed aside, but they are still there. Their green is muted, overshadowed by the brightness of the crop, but they are present, watching. Their enduring presence is a comforting reassurance that no matter how much Wiradyuri ngurambang is forced to change, ngama winhangaygunhagi nurranurrabul*.

C.L. Hayden
Oct 2024