As the soft deep voice of my grandad wafts into my ears the sight of his ripped self patched clothes and the woollen beanie that sits on the top of his shiny bald head, enters my vision.

Graham’s glowing face greets me with joy along with his large rough hands. Seeing the small bright green eyes that lie on his aging wrinkly face dart over to my mum's average looking garden, I knew the words that I always dread were coming and they did. His dry cracked lips move and he says “So I see you haven’t helped your mum with that garden, should I help her?” That’s what he did.

I was dragged outside and forced into labour. It’s more like fun for him because he loves the smell of the soil when it falls through his scratched and battered fingers, “It’s just like a pattern; grab, twist, pull.” So when I didn’t do that the soft deep voice of my grandad wasn’t so nice anymore.

As the sweat drips off my oddly large forehead like a broken faucet, he mutters, “You’ve gotta help your mum more and get off that silly little box thing of yours.” He frowns at me. “See, when I was your age I would use the world around me as my technology, not your screaming brick.” That was a recurring argument that would always appear in our conversations after that. As I am getting older I am starting to realise that I should use my phone less and help my mum more because I am really starting to enjoy it, especially working in the garden.

Omar Arekatera Te Ra

Year 9