Against expectations he has a good crop that spring. Only half the flowers have been pollinated but those not swelling and becoming fruit defiantly remain. There is some terrible metaphor there for declining fertility rates but this evening he is not mean-spirited enough to make it.
Soft and fleshy, the petals bruise easily and leave lavender streaks on his fingers. In his eyes, eyes that are still hungrily noticing every minute detail, the flowers suddenly look like a hybrid of two Earth-native ones that Keiko O’Brien once pointed out as also edible.
Their names are filed away in a seldom-accessed place in his memory now. All Human-related things are. Perhaps that information has even degraded slightly, he has not had a chance to review it.
Surely the Doctor could enlighten him. It would be a good technical exercise, wouldn’t it? To send a single picture with no explanation to a remote medical console on Deep Space Nine.
Ah but they have their best color in the mornings.
Alas a government official’s salary does not stretch quite far enough to move all the stones that need moving. There are rebuilding proposals that cannot fail, orphan informants to pay off, another old woman who had been kind to Mila and is now caring for an invalid veteran daughter.
Of course he gets by. It is a better test of his survival skills than punching meal numbers into the machines of the Replimat. There is the garden and the sea, roots to prune back and boil, quick fish to eviscerate ( avoiding the toxin-heavy liver ). Luckily he has the bone structure to still remain impressive without much of the stored fat. Would he be difficult to recognize without it?
Speaking of, sunset has come upon him. Supper is due. For some foolish reason he leaves one bush untouched, harvests the rest into sealing canisters, puts a handful of petals into a wooden bowl and chews very slowly.