Welcome to Read, Write, Love - writings by members of Hunter Writers Centre. It’s hard to describe everything that falls under the subject of love because everything can relate to love. It can be new love, long married love, love after someone has died, love between parents and children, siblings, friends, self love or that special bond with a pet, activity or object. Send your piece to [email protected] Not a HWC member? Join here
When the Sun Goes Down
By Maree Gallop
The afternoon light filtered through the magnolia in the hospital courtyard. I’m not sure if Fred saw the shadows creeping toward him as he sat in the dayroom. But he paced to the door, rattled it then circled the small ward. He lifted a heavy geriatric chair from his path unsettling the other patients. Alice shadowed me. Ted stripped off his clothes and George yelled, ‘nurse, nurse, nurse,’ over and over.
The sun gradually sunk beyond the courtyard, shadows morphed into a black inkiness and the artificial lights were turned on. Fred paced to the nurses’ station and tapped on the window.
‘Maisie. Maisie.’
‘Your wife’s coming soon, Fred.’
As I guided him to a table in the middle of the room his palms were sweaty and he puffed as though he’d run a marathon. In fact, years ago he did run a marathon, several actually. His wife told me he was the State champion in ’65.
‘Sit here, Fred.’
Fred stumbled and almost fell, but I leant my arm for support.
‘Are you feeling dizzy?’
‘The keys are on the casserole.’
‘Oh. OK. You like casserole. Maisie told me that too.’
Fred stopped and looked at me. His eyes were as distant as the memory of his wife’s cooking. He stared blankly at the locked door that leads to the enclosed courtyard. In the glass his reflection was vague, but soft around the edges. He could’ve easily been mistaken for someone else, a younger version of himself, perhaps?
Fred shoved his chair back abruptly into the path of another patient and started pacing again. He checked the courtyard door; it was locked. He checked the six bedrooms down the corridor; they were empty. He rattled the fire exit; there was no escape.
Maisie arrived in the foyer with her daughter, Lilly. The resemblance between them was striking, tall, elegant, impeccably groomed, the only difference, their age and hair. Maisie’s hair was cropped short with natural silver streaks. Lilly’s was a tumble of chestnut curls, shining, despite the hospital lighting. Maisie carried a dish wrapped in a chequered tea towel.
‘It’s our 60th wedding anniversary.’
In the family room Maisie set the small oval table and spooned casserole into plastic bowls. She poured bubbly lemonade into disposable cups. I called Fred away from the fire escape. He turned slowly when he heard his name, stared for a moment and then rushed toward us. He made a beeline for Lilly and clutched her hands. He expelled a lifetime of air and whispered.
‘My beautiful Maisie.’
Maisie’s face dropped, her chin trembled and she wiped tear-filled memories from her cheeks. But Fred breathed more easily, his gaze present, his anxiety subsiding as he sat beside a replica of his wife from 60 years ago.
By Maree Gallop
The afternoon light filtered through the magnolia in the hospital courtyard. I’m not sure if Fred saw the shadows creeping toward him as he sat in the dayroom. But he paced to the door, rattled it then circled the small ward. He lifted a heavy geriatric chair from his path unsettling the other patients. Alice shadowed me. Ted stripped off his clothes and George yelled, ‘nurse, nurse, nurse,’ over and over.
The sun gradually sunk beyond the courtyard, shadows morphed into a black inkiness and the artificial lights were turned on. Fred paced to the nurses’ station and tapped on the window.
‘Maisie. Maisie.’
‘Your wife’s coming soon, Fred.’
As I guided him to a table in the middle of the room his palms were sweaty and he puffed as though he’d run a marathon. In fact, years ago he did run a marathon, several actually. His wife told me he was the State champion in ’65.
‘Sit here, Fred.’
Fred stumbled and almost fell, but I leant my arm for support.
‘Are you feeling dizzy?’
‘The keys are on the casserole.’
‘Oh. OK. You like casserole. Maisie told me that too.’
Fred stopped and looked at me. His eyes were as distant as the memory of his wife’s cooking. He stared blankly at the locked door that leads to the enclosed courtyard. In the glass his reflection was vague, but soft around the edges. He could’ve easily been mistaken for someone else, a younger version of himself, perhaps?
Fred shoved his chair back abruptly into the path of another patient and started pacing again. He checked the courtyard door; it was locked. He checked the six bedrooms down the corridor; they were empty. He rattled the fire exit; there was no escape.
Maisie arrived in the foyer with her daughter, Lilly. The resemblance between them was striking, tall, elegant, impeccably groomed, the only difference, their age and hair. Maisie’s hair was cropped short with natural silver streaks. Lilly’s was a tumble of chestnut curls, shining, despite the hospital lighting. Maisie carried a dish wrapped in a chequered tea towel.
‘It’s our 60th wedding anniversary.’
In the family room Maisie set the small oval table and spooned casserole into plastic bowls. She poured bubbly lemonade into disposable cups. I called Fred away from the fire escape. He turned slowly when he heard his name, stared for a moment and then rushed toward us. He made a beeline for Lilly and clutched her hands. He expelled a lifetime of air and whispered.
‘My beautiful Maisie.’
Maisie’s face dropped, her chin trembled and she wiped tear-filled memories from her cheeks. But Fred breathed more easily, his gaze present, his anxiety subsiding as he sat beside a replica of his wife from 60 years ago.
Dream Trip
By Megan Buxton Tess hopes she has packed everything they’ll need in the new caravan. Bob was at the club last night, saying goodbye to his mates. By the time he came home he could hardly stand let alone make decisions about packing. Now he’s hitching the van to the new four-wheel drive. Tess looks at the car, squat and pugnacious, and misses her little hatch-back. ‘Silly to keep it love,’ Bob said. ‘It’ll be sitting in the garage for six months doing nothing. May as well sell it and use the money on the trip. And we’ll only need one car when we get back – now we’re retired.’ Tess shudders at the thought. Bob looks up from the couplings and glares. ‘Nice for some,’ he says. ‘Started the holiday already I see. She climbs into the car, lips thinned. The door slams and the seatbelt is yanked across, the tongue jammed into the buckle. ‘Steady on Tess, old girl. Treat the car with a bit of respect, eh, love.’ Tess takes a deep breath. ‘Well. Here we go, eh love. Trip of a life time. All our dreams coming true. Tess thinks of Paris, Rome, the wonders of Europe. Someone’s dreams are coming true at any rate. An hour later they slow down, along with all the other northbound traffic. Tess looks ahead and sees dozens of vans in the line, inching along like giant silver snails. ‘A caravan of caravans,’ she mutters. ‘Eh, what, love?’ says Bob. ‘I thought this new bypass was supposed to speed things up. By the way, did you pack my hand surfer?’ ‘Jesus, Tess. I’ve been looking forward to using it. I love that thing.’ Yep, thinks Tess. He loves it so much he hasn’t touched it for five years. Silence in the cabin. Tess gazes ahead at the white lines dissolving in the liquid shimmer of the road. She thinks of the aluminium siding of the van, sucking in the heat, storing it up to torment her throughout the long night. They didn’t get the air-conditioning. ‘No need for that, love. We’ll be sitting in the annexe, enjoying the sea breeze.’ Bob begins to whistle. He calls it whistling anyway; forcing air between the gaps in his teeth, the tunes unrecognisable. The sound slices through her like a paper cut. |
‘What are we having for tea, love?’
Tess groans at the thought of cooking in the hot box on wheels. ‘I thought we might go out,’ she says. ‘By the time we arrive and set up it’ll be late.’ He looks crestfallen. ‘Oh, no love. First night in the new van. We’ve got to christen the new equipment.’ What’s with the ‘we’ she thinks. You’ll pour a beer and relax while I cook. Same shit as home, just a different location – and more difficult. They pull into a petrol station. ‘Stop, revive, survive,’ parrots Bob, returning to the car with an ice-cream and a packet of chips. ‘Didn’t get you anything, love. I know you’ve gotta watch your weight,’ he beams at her as the fast-melting ice-cream drips onto his paunch. He crunches on the chips as they drive, slurping the salt off his fingers after each one. Tess thinks about the journey ahead. Six months of caravanning. Six months of caravan parks. Six months of amenities blocks with tinea –infested shower stalls and using toilets after someone with terminal digestive problems. Six months of Bob at close quarters. In a couple of hours they’ll be in Port Macquarie. Tess gets out her phone. Google tells her there’s an airport there. With a few clicks she could book a flight home and another to France. She’d be packed and on her way before Bob gets back from fishing. She hopes her passport is still valid. Bob reaches across and pats her knee. ‘This is going to be so good,’ he says. ‘And there’s no-one I’d rather be travelling with. You know that, love?’ Tess sighs, puts away her phone and stares through the windscreen at the long road ahead. |
In life, As In Death.
By Robert Edmonds Behind the crematorium they toss unwanted wreaths. As local kids we piled them up, and liked to play beneath. In Loving Memory became a place where girls would hide, hanging their hair with flowers that had only just arrived. In Peace became a fortress that I once attacked with Always tied around my neck, Forever on my back. I like to think God Broke My Heart was the scene of my first kiss. But it might have been Remembered, or even Deeply Missed. We dug a pit and covered it with Waiting For Me There. We waited there to ambush those In His Eternal Care. Gone But Not Forgotten was a cubby at the rear. But they were close to compared to So Far Away and Yet So Near. The toughest kids I ever fought were from Cherished and Adored. They were bold and fearless and Forever In Our Thoughts. Our allies used to run away. They fancied they were clever. They’d go and hide in Sadly Missed or in With Us Forever. Sleeping Now were all defeated. Those playing dead did not survive. And so I swore I’d never Stay At Rest while still alive. And when I find I’m Free Now, I’m In Heaven drawing breath. Make me a part of everything In Life (yes) As In Death. |
|
My Brother, Ross
By Bronwyn MacRitchie
An accident, they said. By his own hand, they said.
My brother Ross was twenty seven years old when he died. He had been working alone on a mine near Hermidale in NSW and I hadn’t seen him for several months.
We are in the basement carpark lift at the Sydney RSL on the the way to his wake when the lift stops. It is stuck between floors with twelve passengers. Except for my sister, everyone else is a stranger to us, but not to my brother. They have travelled from the Central West to attend his funeral. Having shouted, banged and pushed every button, we introduce ourselves and reminisce on Ross’ exploits while waiting for rescue.
He was crazy, inventive and loved to push the boundaries. When our older brother came home to Dubbo on school holidays he and Ross would go down to the shunting yards and roll between the train wheels. Ross was five. He built a rocket when he was eight, climbed up a tall tree and launched it from there. Instead of shooting into outer space, the tree caught fire instead. He tried skiing on the dam with a piece of corrugated tin pulled around by the jeep. Time and again it sank or hit the fence that went through the middle. When he worked in Cobar he built an airconditioner from an aeroplane propellar and inserted it in the wall of his bedroom. It was too powerful to use. Having a pilots licence brought out more mischief. We were travelling from Orange to Mount Hope in a small Cessna when he decided to herd a mob of wild goats. I didn’t find it amusing as he dipped and turned. I held my breath and gripped the seat. Crop dusting had been good practice, he said. In New Guinea he was flying goods to isolated areas. The plane became stranded and he was surrounded by cannibals. He managed to convince them he would not be a tasty meal and offered them a bottle of whisky as a substitute. It became one of his regular runs. He could fix anything mechanical and was fastidious in servicing the aeroplane and car.
The lift begins to move upward. We will be half an hour late but that doesn’t matter because Ross loves a good party. He will be honoured with tales from those who’d encountered his quirky humour and brilliant mind.
But no-one knew him the way I did. The boy who comforted me when my backside hurt from the strap or one night when my nightdress caught fire when he burnt his hands putting out the flames. They didn’t know he punched Johnny Paterson in the face for calling me an stupid idiot or when he took the blame for my wrongdoing and got the strap. They didn’t know he had driven me to the station after a fight with Dad and cried when I left. He wept when our animals died and insisted on a full burial each time. We had small crosses all over the back yard. He was fiercely protective always. He hated being in the city, even for a short time but he did it to spend time with me. They didn’t know his tender heart was bruised many times by a cruel step-mother and manipulative father.
The rope was round his neck, they said
By Bronwyn MacRitchie
An accident, they said. By his own hand, they said.
My brother Ross was twenty seven years old when he died. He had been working alone on a mine near Hermidale in NSW and I hadn’t seen him for several months.
We are in the basement carpark lift at the Sydney RSL on the the way to his wake when the lift stops. It is stuck between floors with twelve passengers. Except for my sister, everyone else is a stranger to us, but not to my brother. They have travelled from the Central West to attend his funeral. Having shouted, banged and pushed every button, we introduce ourselves and reminisce on Ross’ exploits while waiting for rescue.
He was crazy, inventive and loved to push the boundaries. When our older brother came home to Dubbo on school holidays he and Ross would go down to the shunting yards and roll between the train wheels. Ross was five. He built a rocket when he was eight, climbed up a tall tree and launched it from there. Instead of shooting into outer space, the tree caught fire instead. He tried skiing on the dam with a piece of corrugated tin pulled around by the jeep. Time and again it sank or hit the fence that went through the middle. When he worked in Cobar he built an airconditioner from an aeroplane propellar and inserted it in the wall of his bedroom. It was too powerful to use. Having a pilots licence brought out more mischief. We were travelling from Orange to Mount Hope in a small Cessna when he decided to herd a mob of wild goats. I didn’t find it amusing as he dipped and turned. I held my breath and gripped the seat. Crop dusting had been good practice, he said. In New Guinea he was flying goods to isolated areas. The plane became stranded and he was surrounded by cannibals. He managed to convince them he would not be a tasty meal and offered them a bottle of whisky as a substitute. It became one of his regular runs. He could fix anything mechanical and was fastidious in servicing the aeroplane and car.
The lift begins to move upward. We will be half an hour late but that doesn’t matter because Ross loves a good party. He will be honoured with tales from those who’d encountered his quirky humour and brilliant mind.
But no-one knew him the way I did. The boy who comforted me when my backside hurt from the strap or one night when my nightdress caught fire when he burnt his hands putting out the flames. They didn’t know he punched Johnny Paterson in the face for calling me an stupid idiot or when he took the blame for my wrongdoing and got the strap. They didn’t know he had driven me to the station after a fight with Dad and cried when I left. He wept when our animals died and insisted on a full burial each time. We had small crosses all over the back yard. He was fiercely protective always. He hated being in the city, even for a short time but he did it to spend time with me. They didn’t know his tender heart was bruised many times by a cruel step-mother and manipulative father.
The rope was round his neck, they said
The Utterances of a Child
for my granddaughter Claire By Cassandra O'Loughlin Surely the song-larks on the Hay plains heard your call on the landline, and the birds in the atolls of light on the Murray. The bright-eyed quolls would have stopped to listen in the mountain’s deep-scented shade. Certainly the koel in the fig would know it was you, and the restless boobook that twirls curlicues in the fog. Your voice sends out light from every syllable, every vowel and consonant . . . there is no one who can explain this. Rain falls on my face, on my hands, as I wait for your next call. The household words gathered in your four years are sweet raspberries at my breakfast table, wrens on my pillow. |
A Letter From The Land Of Alone
Megan Buxton
Awarded the National Association of Loss and Grief Award 2014
Dear You,
I’m standing in your room. If I breathe deep enough I can smell the cinnamon scent of you. If I’m still enough I can feel a tiny tremor of your essence. If I’m quiet I can hear you, but you’re as faint as the echo of bird call in a canyon. And you’re fading.
I put your things away today in cardboard boxes. Six of them. How can they, so flimsy in substance and so small in number, hold all the love and the dreams and the hope that I’ve packed away inside them.
There they squat, like toadstools on the bedroom floor. And I don’t know what to do with them now they’re full. How can I give away the things you touched, the clothes that once touched you? I’m scared that, if I let them go, there’ll be nothing left to remind me of you.
Death took you and as he left, he poked holes in me so the heart of me leaked out. I zombie-shuffle through my days dressed in black. You hated black, but colours are for the living; they hurt my grieving eyes.
It’s funny – in a sad, strange way. You died and I’m like a corpse.
And here I am in the land of alone. And it’s hard here.
People talk about my ‘late’ daughter. How I wish that were true and any moment you would burst through the door, scattering your belongings like confetti. How I wish that death was just a lack of punctuality.
‘Try to think about the good times,’ they tell me.
I wonder how that’s supposed to help.
Thinking of the good times is vinegar on raw flesh and opens up the wound to bleed memories of arguments and petty jealousies, pointless anger, bitterness. All thrown so carelessly back then when I thought I had forever. Never retracted, never recanted. Lost chances and disappointments.
I feel the awful loneliness of regret.
‘Give it time,’ they say.
But grief is a ravenous beast. I’ve been feeding him time and all he wants is more. More time, more pain, more of me. He takes and takes and gives nothing in return.
I’ve said those same words to others in the past. They sound the same here in the land of alone but their meanings shimmer like mirages and I don’t seem to have a dictionary.
And the words don’t tell me what to call myself. I’m not an orphan; I still have parents. I’m not a widow; it’s not a husband I’ve lost. No-one has a word for the mother who’s lost a child. So what have I become? What am I without you?
‘This will pass,’ they tell me. I know they’re wrong.
Anger ends. Happiness and laughter end. Why, then, does grief go on and on?
Megan Buxton
Awarded the National Association of Loss and Grief Award 2014
Dear You,
I’m standing in your room. If I breathe deep enough I can smell the cinnamon scent of you. If I’m still enough I can feel a tiny tremor of your essence. If I’m quiet I can hear you, but you’re as faint as the echo of bird call in a canyon. And you’re fading.
I put your things away today in cardboard boxes. Six of them. How can they, so flimsy in substance and so small in number, hold all the love and the dreams and the hope that I’ve packed away inside them.
There they squat, like toadstools on the bedroom floor. And I don’t know what to do with them now they’re full. How can I give away the things you touched, the clothes that once touched you? I’m scared that, if I let them go, there’ll be nothing left to remind me of you.
Death took you and as he left, he poked holes in me so the heart of me leaked out. I zombie-shuffle through my days dressed in black. You hated black, but colours are for the living; they hurt my grieving eyes.
It’s funny – in a sad, strange way. You died and I’m like a corpse.
And here I am in the land of alone. And it’s hard here.
People talk about my ‘late’ daughter. How I wish that were true and any moment you would burst through the door, scattering your belongings like confetti. How I wish that death was just a lack of punctuality.
‘Try to think about the good times,’ they tell me.
I wonder how that’s supposed to help.
Thinking of the good times is vinegar on raw flesh and opens up the wound to bleed memories of arguments and petty jealousies, pointless anger, bitterness. All thrown so carelessly back then when I thought I had forever. Never retracted, never recanted. Lost chances and disappointments.
I feel the awful loneliness of regret.
‘Give it time,’ they say.
But grief is a ravenous beast. I’ve been feeding him time and all he wants is more. More time, more pain, more of me. He takes and takes and gives nothing in return.
I’ve said those same words to others in the past. They sound the same here in the land of alone but their meanings shimmer like mirages and I don’t seem to have a dictionary.
And the words don’t tell me what to call myself. I’m not an orphan; I still have parents. I’m not a widow; it’s not a husband I’ve lost. No-one has a word for the mother who’s lost a child. So what have I become? What am I without you?
‘This will pass,’ they tell me. I know they’re wrong.
Anger ends. Happiness and laughter end. Why, then, does grief go on and on?
|
Fuzz Noise
(for Annabelle) By Anne Walsh she eats a banana big hush of peel in her cow onesie her cud: my attention I cannot write anything except her mooing her banana peel her eating my attention peeling it never was there a noisier silent consumption of anything than of my attention her chewing my writing becoming her chewing our silent onesie |
What my mother did when I went to school
By Rosemary Bunker
My mother barely noticed when, not yet three, I took off for the one-teacher school next door. She had cooked breakfast and, depending on the day of the week, would then light the copper for washing, dampen the clothes for ironing, mop and polish the floors. All this done, my mother too took off for school. She was her husband’s teacher's aide.
The family lynch pin, my mother was, before her marriage, a renaissance woman: a science graduate, a pianist, a trained soprano, student of drawing. She knew the social niceties – the correct table setting, the approved introduction rituals, the value of religion. She knew her place and that was by her husband’s side.
So it was, my mother left the house for part of the day to teach eighteen children from farms, fettler and road work gangs.
‘Like this’ she’d say, holding up a blue crayon, then a yellow. 'Blue and green don’t go.' And we’d draw on plain paper. She made each child’s drawing a recognisable flower, a daisy or a bird. We’d stand by her side as she demonstrated a run and fell seam, then help our awkward fingers to manage scissors or thread a needle. Knitting and crochet were slow processes of handing over the work and picking up the stitch. She guided the boys’ hands folding blue and orange paper to create an origami bird. Sheets of newspaper became pirates’ hats. When it was time for music out came the tuning fork and we sang ‘doh’ after her. Then, reading the words written large on the blackboard, we sang ‘Hush little baby’ until we knew the tune and the words. She listened to us reciting ballads we learnt by heart. Making up our own plays, putting on a red shawl or a sword was to give unruly boys too much licence! Control was man’s work. In that, my father, cane sitting across the table, was supreme. Mother and I were sent home for father’s control sessions.
I returned home often through the day to help skim the milk and beat the cream by hand to make yellow butter. Bought butter was a treat I longed for. We staked the tomatoes, cut newspaper with pinking shears for the lavatory, a deep hole with two wooden seats, or plucked a fowl. The smell of hot, wet feathers was unbearable. Because we were poor and idleness was a sin, mum made everything we wore and used. She turned her talents to making pot holders and peg bags of hessian, hemmed flour bags for tea towels and aprons on the treadle Singer sewing machine. Best dresses for Sunday, aprons, tough cesarine pinafores, knitted dresses with hats, gloves and bags for best or town sprang from her hands with pyjamas, nighties and bedsox. Once mother made a georgette dress for herself, dark wine in colour, in case we were invited out. She wore it once when, by invitation, women were invited to provide supper for the Lodge men. As mother worked at home, so did I, I learnt to make scones, plan and cook a baked rabbit dinner, make a mandatory sponge cake for the minister’s pastoral visit, preserve eggs with keypeg for the winter, stack the pantry shelves with bottles of dark red tomato sauce, fill jars with melon and lemon jam and sterilise Fowler jars for fruit - plums and peaches. How I longed for ice cream instead of boring fruit every night. Now and then mum played the piano and made me practise Czerny exercises or a Chopin Prelude. Home or school did not matter – mother could not stop working or teaching.
The war changed her life. We moved to the city. A teaching appointment meant paid work outside the home. Her domestic duties became mine after school. Looking back, I see a rational woman who embraced what she knew was best for her. I wonder if she regretted her choice. Did she marry at twenty-nine to escape spinsterhood with, she told me once, ‘a good man’ two years younger? Did my father, with a weak heart, one eye and minimal training, marry her to survive? That they melded is all I know now.
By Rosemary Bunker
My mother barely noticed when, not yet three, I took off for the one-teacher school next door. She had cooked breakfast and, depending on the day of the week, would then light the copper for washing, dampen the clothes for ironing, mop and polish the floors. All this done, my mother too took off for school. She was her husband’s teacher's aide.
The family lynch pin, my mother was, before her marriage, a renaissance woman: a science graduate, a pianist, a trained soprano, student of drawing. She knew the social niceties – the correct table setting, the approved introduction rituals, the value of religion. She knew her place and that was by her husband’s side.
So it was, my mother left the house for part of the day to teach eighteen children from farms, fettler and road work gangs.
‘Like this’ she’d say, holding up a blue crayon, then a yellow. 'Blue and green don’t go.' And we’d draw on plain paper. She made each child’s drawing a recognisable flower, a daisy or a bird. We’d stand by her side as she demonstrated a run and fell seam, then help our awkward fingers to manage scissors or thread a needle. Knitting and crochet were slow processes of handing over the work and picking up the stitch. She guided the boys’ hands folding blue and orange paper to create an origami bird. Sheets of newspaper became pirates’ hats. When it was time for music out came the tuning fork and we sang ‘doh’ after her. Then, reading the words written large on the blackboard, we sang ‘Hush little baby’ until we knew the tune and the words. She listened to us reciting ballads we learnt by heart. Making up our own plays, putting on a red shawl or a sword was to give unruly boys too much licence! Control was man’s work. In that, my father, cane sitting across the table, was supreme. Mother and I were sent home for father’s control sessions.
I returned home often through the day to help skim the milk and beat the cream by hand to make yellow butter. Bought butter was a treat I longed for. We staked the tomatoes, cut newspaper with pinking shears for the lavatory, a deep hole with two wooden seats, or plucked a fowl. The smell of hot, wet feathers was unbearable. Because we were poor and idleness was a sin, mum made everything we wore and used. She turned her talents to making pot holders and peg bags of hessian, hemmed flour bags for tea towels and aprons on the treadle Singer sewing machine. Best dresses for Sunday, aprons, tough cesarine pinafores, knitted dresses with hats, gloves and bags for best or town sprang from her hands with pyjamas, nighties and bedsox. Once mother made a georgette dress for herself, dark wine in colour, in case we were invited out. She wore it once when, by invitation, women were invited to provide supper for the Lodge men. As mother worked at home, so did I, I learnt to make scones, plan and cook a baked rabbit dinner, make a mandatory sponge cake for the minister’s pastoral visit, preserve eggs with keypeg for the winter, stack the pantry shelves with bottles of dark red tomato sauce, fill jars with melon and lemon jam and sterilise Fowler jars for fruit - plums and peaches. How I longed for ice cream instead of boring fruit every night. Now and then mum played the piano and made me practise Czerny exercises or a Chopin Prelude. Home or school did not matter – mother could not stop working or teaching.
The war changed her life. We moved to the city. A teaching appointment meant paid work outside the home. Her domestic duties became mine after school. Looking back, I see a rational woman who embraced what she knew was best for her. I wonder if she regretted her choice. Did she marry at twenty-nine to escape spinsterhood with, she told me once, ‘a good man’ two years younger? Did my father, with a weak heart, one eye and minimal training, marry her to survive? That they melded is all I know now.
Brothers in arms
- those mist covered mountains -
By Ellen Shelley
I followed our friendship over mountains.
Navigating girlhood
exploring our dreams.
I followed our friendship into the unknown.
Our first taste of liquor
the first taste of love.
I followed our friendship through the fog.
Stumbling into adulthood
the death of your father.
I followed our friendship to the summit.
The warm glow of loyalty
the birth of our children.
I followed our friendship into a crossroad.
A division in our choices
an unspoken disharmony.
I limped after our friendship.
Scavenging for a connection
to bind our lives together.
I poked carefully around our friendship.
Avoiding awkward exchanges
nothing left to say.
I relinquished our friendship,
and am left asking the question:
am I where I am now because of you
or me?
- those mist covered mountains -
By Ellen Shelley
I followed our friendship over mountains.
Navigating girlhood
exploring our dreams.
I followed our friendship into the unknown.
Our first taste of liquor
the first taste of love.
I followed our friendship through the fog.
Stumbling into adulthood
the death of your father.
I followed our friendship to the summit.
The warm glow of loyalty
the birth of our children.
I followed our friendship into a crossroad.
A division in our choices
an unspoken disharmony.
I limped after our friendship.
Scavenging for a connection
to bind our lives together.
I poked carefully around our friendship.
Avoiding awkward exchanges
nothing left to say.
I relinquished our friendship,
and am left asking the question:
am I where I am now because of you
or me?
At the recent Scone Writing Workshop attendees were invited to write a 3-sentence short story to see how sentence length can make your writing more engaging. Here is member Eryl Carter's piece using a long, medium and short sentence:
It was bound to happen sooner or later, of course, as things had become sufficiently unstuck over the previous five years that they each secretly knew that the end was inevitable. So, when he shouted at her and threw a glass of wine over her, they both knew. This was it. |
A Memorable Schoolday
by Willie Southgate
I woke to hear the house filled with a terrible noise - like somebody in agony. What was happening?
My siblings and I had been away from home for forty days whilst Father was in hospital. We had stayed with "Auntie", who wasn't really our aunt, and counted the days. We couldn't wait for him to get well so we could all go home.
We lived in a small country town in Denmark where I attended Bækby Public School. Our house, on the main street, was a white two-storey building with a shop front where our tenant had a dairy. She had a flat upstairs where also my sister and I shared a bedroom. My sister had not returned home yet and I had the room to myself.
Whilst staying with Auntie, I had been wearing winter clothes , but now it was summer - the second of June, and the sun was shining. I found a light cotton dress. It was reasonably clean and I dressed quickly to go downstairs to find out what was going on.
I met the district nurse coming from Father's bedroom. "There's porridge in the kitchen," she said. "And could you get your little brother up and dressed - send him outside to his brothers. You can then go to school. Your father has been taken ill during the night."
I went to Father's bedroom. He was making that noise. He must have been in shocking pain. I lifted my little brother out of his cot and dressed him, gave him breakfast and sent him outside to play as the nurse had told me. I then headed off to school, but with forebodings. This was only Father's second day at home.
I was nine years old and in fourth grade. We were in the gym building for PE. It was there I received a message to come back to the school. Here the pastor's wife and another woman waited in a taxi for me. We drove to where my older sister was staying. She was in bed with a cold.
We went to her bedroom. The pastor's wife put me on her knees. It was then we received the devastating news that Father had suffered a heart attack and died. As mother had died barely three years before, we knew what death meant.
Later in the day, the pastor's wife took me to see Father. He was lying on his bed with a sheet pulled right up over his head. She removed it enough to let me see his face. He was a bad colour, all yellowish and pale and there was cottonwool stuffed up his nostrils.
"He had a nosebleed," she explained and pulled the sheet up to cover him again. "He's with God now."
After this she brought me across the street to our neighbours. I was to stay with them, I was told.
It was evening now but not dark. The suppertable was laid with the most delicious food such as I'd not seen in a long time. There was rationing due to the war, but our neighbours had a deli and were better off. I was hungry, had not eaten anything since breakfast, and stuffed myself. It was not good, for combined with the stress and emotions of the day it made me feel sick. A bucket was placed beside my bed into which I brought up my entire meal.
I didn't go back to the public school again. It was now holiday time, and after that I was transferred to the Grammar School. We had become wards of the state and the headmaster of the Grammar School had been made our legal guardian. He ensured we all received a free education there.
We were six children in all. We lost the parents we loved and the home we had shared. But, perhaps because of this, our love for each other grew even stronger and, though we later scattered to the four corners of the world, that love has never ceased.
by Willie Southgate
I woke to hear the house filled with a terrible noise - like somebody in agony. What was happening?
My siblings and I had been away from home for forty days whilst Father was in hospital. We had stayed with "Auntie", who wasn't really our aunt, and counted the days. We couldn't wait for him to get well so we could all go home.
We lived in a small country town in Denmark where I attended Bækby Public School. Our house, on the main street, was a white two-storey building with a shop front where our tenant had a dairy. She had a flat upstairs where also my sister and I shared a bedroom. My sister had not returned home yet and I had the room to myself.
Whilst staying with Auntie, I had been wearing winter clothes , but now it was summer - the second of June, and the sun was shining. I found a light cotton dress. It was reasonably clean and I dressed quickly to go downstairs to find out what was going on.
I met the district nurse coming from Father's bedroom. "There's porridge in the kitchen," she said. "And could you get your little brother up and dressed - send him outside to his brothers. You can then go to school. Your father has been taken ill during the night."
I went to Father's bedroom. He was making that noise. He must have been in shocking pain. I lifted my little brother out of his cot and dressed him, gave him breakfast and sent him outside to play as the nurse had told me. I then headed off to school, but with forebodings. This was only Father's second day at home.
I was nine years old and in fourth grade. We were in the gym building for PE. It was there I received a message to come back to the school. Here the pastor's wife and another woman waited in a taxi for me. We drove to where my older sister was staying. She was in bed with a cold.
We went to her bedroom. The pastor's wife put me on her knees. It was then we received the devastating news that Father had suffered a heart attack and died. As mother had died barely three years before, we knew what death meant.
Later in the day, the pastor's wife took me to see Father. He was lying on his bed with a sheet pulled right up over his head. She removed it enough to let me see his face. He was a bad colour, all yellowish and pale and there was cottonwool stuffed up his nostrils.
"He had a nosebleed," she explained and pulled the sheet up to cover him again. "He's with God now."
After this she brought me across the street to our neighbours. I was to stay with them, I was told.
It was evening now but not dark. The suppertable was laid with the most delicious food such as I'd not seen in a long time. There was rationing due to the war, but our neighbours had a deli and were better off. I was hungry, had not eaten anything since breakfast, and stuffed myself. It was not good, for combined with the stress and emotions of the day it made me feel sick. A bucket was placed beside my bed into which I brought up my entire meal.
I didn't go back to the public school again. It was now holiday time, and after that I was transferred to the Grammar School. We had become wards of the state and the headmaster of the Grammar School had been made our legal guardian. He ensured we all received a free education there.
We were six children in all. We lost the parents we loved and the home we had shared. But, perhaps because of this, our love for each other grew even stronger and, though we later scattered to the four corners of the world, that love has never ceased.
Untitled
By David Graham
love
is like a raindrop on a road of bitumen
or
streets of roaring tires, guttered by the past
it
is a lonely hollow footpath quiet and destitute
and
the tree branch bending to the wind of traffic’s current
it’s
insignificant as a leaf browning in the drain
or
rust on the street lamps & rubbish in the bin
but
these are the things that matter
By David Graham
love
is like a raindrop on a road of bitumen
or
streets of roaring tires, guttered by the past
it
is a lonely hollow footpath quiet and destitute
and
the tree branch bending to the wind of traffic’s current
it’s
insignificant as a leaf browning in the drain
or
rust on the street lamps & rubbish in the bin
but
these are the things that matter
A Lament
By Eva Harris Well listen ladies, and I will tell Of the sad, sad state in which we dwell If looking for a cultured fellow I’ve many tales of shock and sorrow- Y’see, In recent months I’ve looked online For someone with whom to share my time And let me tell you my lament Of wasted hours vainly spent In wading through the boors and clowns The men on-show - it gets you down! The downright scary, the awful frights Enough to make you sleep well at night Knowing you are on your own Not wanting ever to leave your home Let me tell you what I have seen I’m being honest - not being mean - Self - portraits taken where they look blind Drunk, I mean, not the other kind, Of spelling errors so bizarre. Misspelling coffee, dinner and car, Of thinly masked displays of lust “I like ladies with a nice large bust” Oh you can tell they’ve had a few Then gone online to write their views - “afeckshunate male who really likes Fishin’ and campin and motor bikes” |
And all of them are easy goin’
They like their beer ,-fishin, and boatin’ They do not read; they cannot spell They consider foreign movies 'hell' They love their footy They love dirt bikes They love their “country ‘n western” - yikes! Look, that’s all fine Just not for me I’m different and peculiar, see? I’m looking for a different gent Who’s mind is of a different bent Who wouldn’t think his life was tame If he never went to see a game Who likes reading, writing, books and art Who has a kind and gentle heart So I’ll keep on, that much I know I’ll give it yet another go But meanwhile I’m not losing sleep If my own company I keep I live a really quite fine life I have no wish to be a wife - So off I dance to outings new With wrinkles many, assets few I do not know and don’t much care Whatever that I do when there I’m happy just to have a laugh And walk my own distinctive path. |
Memories of Grandfather and the Wildflowers
By Barbara Boon
We step out across the little street. My grandfather and me. I look up at him. He is so tall. He is all mine right now and I don’t have to share him with anyone. Grandfather will pick flowers for the Sunday table and I am with him. We step across the road and into the bush. The bush is spiky and reaches out for my frock and my arms but I am holding Grandfather’s hand and nothing can get me. The bush is singing its song. The trees are murmuring and there are birds and I can hear the creek falling away. Grandfather’s hand is so big and so warm. My hand is engulfed in his hand, just like when I wrap myself up in my blankets at night. Grandfather points to some clouds and tells me that it’s a mackerel sky not twenty four hours dry. And then he pulls aside a little bush and there is a tiny lizard hiding. He touches its tail and it scampers.
We walk on, through the sighing bush and to where the wildflowers grow. I don’t even see them till we are upon them and then Grandfather picks this one and that and I ask them their names and he tells me and I straight away forget. And he tells me things about the other plants and what they used to do with them when he was a boy on the farm. But I forget all that before the sentences are even finished. Because I am in the happiness and comfort of being with Grandfather and not sharing him with anyone. I’m the youngest in the whole family and everyone calls me the wrong name at family gatherings. Even grandfather calls me Lyn. And that’s the oldest granddaughter. Nobody even notices. But I do. And I just want to be called by my own name: Barbara.
So we walk on and there is only us in the whole world and I don’t want this walk to ever end. I want to pick wildflowers every day and never ever stop.
But we have to go home now, Grandfather’s arms are full of a big bunch of flowers and as we walk out of our wonderland, the soft-scented bush, and cross the road, I know I’ve lost him again to the family. He lets go of my hand and sits down under the big tree in the back yard until lunch is ready.
Sometimes Dad will sit with him and they talk but when I approach they stop talking and talk about something else. Mum puts the flowers in a vase and sits it in the centre of the table. It looks beautiful and she gives Grandfather a beer while he sits under the shady tree. These are our flowers, grandfather’s and mine.
Usually he is in terrible trouble from Mum. I never know what he’s done wrong but it seems to have something to do with not having enough baths. So when Grandfather walks over to our place from West Cessnock he has to have a bath. And Mum keeps clean clothes for him at our place.
I know his wife is dead. That was my grandmother, apparently, but to me she doesn’t exist. Not even a name to me and somehow I know to never ever talk to Mum about her. So Mum and her sister, Auntie Maizey, look after him and try to keep him off the beer and keep his house clean. But it’s a wreck and this seems to annoy Mum more than anything. Maizey is all love and warmth and billowing skirts and she reminds me of a chook on a roost.
Sometimes Grandfather will start to tell a story from some time in the past and Mum and Maizey leap in, frantically telling him, “That’s enough, Dadda.” And Maizey is all fluffed up like a chook with her wings going and Mum rushes about getting my sister and me away from whatever it is that Grandfather is talking about. All I ever hear is about the music teacher and Bill Barrett and then the flapping puts an end to everything. I can’t see what the problem can be as I have a music teacher, Miss Hartley. Maybe she might know Bill Barrett too?
Grandfather sits under his tree, sipping his beer in the heat of the afternoon and he always has one leg bent up under the other. He never, ever wears shorts, always a white shirt with a flannel underneath and his black trousers. How can I know that he broke his leg falling from his horse at aged 14 and had to be tied onto the horse and ride 24 miles to Maitland to have it set and now it’s crooked and he has been embarrassed all his life.
Or why Mum reads the paper to him. He can read and write a bit but was one of fourteen brothers on a little farm at Pokolbin. There was little time for school. Or that he was blinded in one eye in the Rothbury riots when the police attacked him and Bill Barrett with batons while they marched. Or a hundred other things that I won’t know until it’s all too late and I don’t have my grandfather any more.
By Barbara Boon
We step out across the little street. My grandfather and me. I look up at him. He is so tall. He is all mine right now and I don’t have to share him with anyone. Grandfather will pick flowers for the Sunday table and I am with him. We step across the road and into the bush. The bush is spiky and reaches out for my frock and my arms but I am holding Grandfather’s hand and nothing can get me. The bush is singing its song. The trees are murmuring and there are birds and I can hear the creek falling away. Grandfather’s hand is so big and so warm. My hand is engulfed in his hand, just like when I wrap myself up in my blankets at night. Grandfather points to some clouds and tells me that it’s a mackerel sky not twenty four hours dry. And then he pulls aside a little bush and there is a tiny lizard hiding. He touches its tail and it scampers.
We walk on, through the sighing bush and to where the wildflowers grow. I don’t even see them till we are upon them and then Grandfather picks this one and that and I ask them their names and he tells me and I straight away forget. And he tells me things about the other plants and what they used to do with them when he was a boy on the farm. But I forget all that before the sentences are even finished. Because I am in the happiness and comfort of being with Grandfather and not sharing him with anyone. I’m the youngest in the whole family and everyone calls me the wrong name at family gatherings. Even grandfather calls me Lyn. And that’s the oldest granddaughter. Nobody even notices. But I do. And I just want to be called by my own name: Barbara.
So we walk on and there is only us in the whole world and I don’t want this walk to ever end. I want to pick wildflowers every day and never ever stop.
But we have to go home now, Grandfather’s arms are full of a big bunch of flowers and as we walk out of our wonderland, the soft-scented bush, and cross the road, I know I’ve lost him again to the family. He lets go of my hand and sits down under the big tree in the back yard until lunch is ready.
Sometimes Dad will sit with him and they talk but when I approach they stop talking and talk about something else. Mum puts the flowers in a vase and sits it in the centre of the table. It looks beautiful and she gives Grandfather a beer while he sits under the shady tree. These are our flowers, grandfather’s and mine.
Usually he is in terrible trouble from Mum. I never know what he’s done wrong but it seems to have something to do with not having enough baths. So when Grandfather walks over to our place from West Cessnock he has to have a bath. And Mum keeps clean clothes for him at our place.
I know his wife is dead. That was my grandmother, apparently, but to me she doesn’t exist. Not even a name to me and somehow I know to never ever talk to Mum about her. So Mum and her sister, Auntie Maizey, look after him and try to keep him off the beer and keep his house clean. But it’s a wreck and this seems to annoy Mum more than anything. Maizey is all love and warmth and billowing skirts and she reminds me of a chook on a roost.
Sometimes Grandfather will start to tell a story from some time in the past and Mum and Maizey leap in, frantically telling him, “That’s enough, Dadda.” And Maizey is all fluffed up like a chook with her wings going and Mum rushes about getting my sister and me away from whatever it is that Grandfather is talking about. All I ever hear is about the music teacher and Bill Barrett and then the flapping puts an end to everything. I can’t see what the problem can be as I have a music teacher, Miss Hartley. Maybe she might know Bill Barrett too?
Grandfather sits under his tree, sipping his beer in the heat of the afternoon and he always has one leg bent up under the other. He never, ever wears shorts, always a white shirt with a flannel underneath and his black trousers. How can I know that he broke his leg falling from his horse at aged 14 and had to be tied onto the horse and ride 24 miles to Maitland to have it set and now it’s crooked and he has been embarrassed all his life.
Or why Mum reads the paper to him. He can read and write a bit but was one of fourteen brothers on a little farm at Pokolbin. There was little time for school. Or that he was blinded in one eye in the Rothbury riots when the police attacked him and Bill Barrett with batons while they marched. Or a hundred other things that I won’t know until it’s all too late and I don’t have my grandfather any more.
Life's Landscape
By Holly Bruce
Mornings, I map myself; energy on earth. I tread my way along balding green footpaths built on the uncertainty of sand and veer toward the sound of the ocean. Unbroken dawn blurs the beach track and though the surf sings to me, I skirt the weight of darkness—the shift and shape of shadows—and turn away. I trace a path through the TAFE, lit by lamps like full-moons.
At the crest of the hill the highway is off duty, all is quiet. I take a left into Walter Street awash with Camphor Laurel and and the sharp clean sting of Lemon Gum. Wandering westward toward the Sailing Club my stride breaks as I slow to wallow in the soulful somnolent honking of Black Swans fishing for breakfast. The breeze blows brackish, salt licks my lips. The language of the lake enlivens me, my pace increases once more; up past the Gunyah where a sign blinks, brash and bright. We have beer. It’s 6am.
Along Cliff Street my feet take the narrow curves through muscle memory. They’ve stamped this path for thirty years; the slope of the curb, the ruts of the land, the dipping driveways.
Down hill to the curl of Brooks Parade, and past the wharf, coffee rolls toward me on the wind. I’m greeted by name as I enter my local. A small cardboard cup is lifted from the stack and marked with my preferred brew, prompted by no more than a smile.
I take the steaming cup and my book which is wedged—like a second self—under my arm, and sink with a sigh to the white wicker chair outside. Early walkers, swimmers, and tradies dart in and out of the café, propelled by the call of caffeine.
The sun crawls over the beach from the east, rakes through coastal scrub, and hits Belmont Bay. Here it clings to canopies of waterfront Figs and leaks lower, to lie along limbs, bringing them to being. My book waits patiently as acquaintances and friends pass by and stop for a chat. Friendship, sun, and coffee; life’s essentials.
An hour or two later I’m anchored behind the counter in the paper shop, a neat ninety seconds walk from home. Here—at work—I find myself trusted with the intimate woof and warp of the town. Over the whirr and whine of the lotto machine confidences are shared; betrayal, hardship, fear. We cover as many topics as there are favourites on the card.
And those who buy the Herald, return grass roots news of their own. With a shuffle of feet, a shift in tone, and a locking of gaze, I hear of health status, love, and death.
All is conveyed as coins’ exchange hands; all is enriched.
Each day this town pulls tighter around me. These people pin me in place. I work and weave the fragile filaments of friendships. These exchanges cast us all into light.
This is my landscape.
By Holly Bruce
Mornings, I map myself; energy on earth. I tread my way along balding green footpaths built on the uncertainty of sand and veer toward the sound of the ocean. Unbroken dawn blurs the beach track and though the surf sings to me, I skirt the weight of darkness—the shift and shape of shadows—and turn away. I trace a path through the TAFE, lit by lamps like full-moons.
At the crest of the hill the highway is off duty, all is quiet. I take a left into Walter Street awash with Camphor Laurel and and the sharp clean sting of Lemon Gum. Wandering westward toward the Sailing Club my stride breaks as I slow to wallow in the soulful somnolent honking of Black Swans fishing for breakfast. The breeze blows brackish, salt licks my lips. The language of the lake enlivens me, my pace increases once more; up past the Gunyah where a sign blinks, brash and bright. We have beer. It’s 6am.
Along Cliff Street my feet take the narrow curves through muscle memory. They’ve stamped this path for thirty years; the slope of the curb, the ruts of the land, the dipping driveways.
Down hill to the curl of Brooks Parade, and past the wharf, coffee rolls toward me on the wind. I’m greeted by name as I enter my local. A small cardboard cup is lifted from the stack and marked with my preferred brew, prompted by no more than a smile.
I take the steaming cup and my book which is wedged—like a second self—under my arm, and sink with a sigh to the white wicker chair outside. Early walkers, swimmers, and tradies dart in and out of the café, propelled by the call of caffeine.
The sun crawls over the beach from the east, rakes through coastal scrub, and hits Belmont Bay. Here it clings to canopies of waterfront Figs and leaks lower, to lie along limbs, bringing them to being. My book waits patiently as acquaintances and friends pass by and stop for a chat. Friendship, sun, and coffee; life’s essentials.
An hour or two later I’m anchored behind the counter in the paper shop, a neat ninety seconds walk from home. Here—at work—I find myself trusted with the intimate woof and warp of the town. Over the whirr and whine of the lotto machine confidences are shared; betrayal, hardship, fear. We cover as many topics as there are favourites on the card.
And those who buy the Herald, return grass roots news of their own. With a shuffle of feet, a shift in tone, and a locking of gaze, I hear of health status, love, and death.
All is conveyed as coins’ exchange hands; all is enriched.
Each day this town pulls tighter around me. These people pin me in place. I work and weave the fragile filaments of friendships. These exchanges cast us all into light.
This is my landscape.
The Circle of Time
By Linda Mueller
My mum is going on holiday to the other side of the world. Alone. At the airport I hug her tight and fight inevitable tears as I say goodbye.
“Have a good time! Stay safe and remember to keep your bag close to you.”
“Yes Mummy.” Her smile is cheeky, her voice reassuring.
“And I love you.”
“Love you too.”
My heart is racing, irrational fear worming its way through my body. I want to say so much more than I love you. I want to tell Mum how I always needed her even if it appeared I didn’t, how I hoped I’d always been there for her the way she had been there for me.
Reason tells me I can’t blurt all that out. Mum deserves to have a joyful journey not have my anxiety as her travelling companion. So I stifle the fear and push away the words that might frighten her.
Then she is gone, the Customs queue sweeping her away from me. I stand there for a few moments, expecting one last smile or wave. Now the train waits, to take me back home. Alone.
Mum held my hand until I could stand on my own. She knew when it was the right time to let go, when to let me fall, when to wait for me to get back up again and find my way.
Through the years, Mum walked beside me and away from me, knowing how to let go without ever really letting go. Today it is my turn.
It is the end of the school day by the time the train begins to snake its way out of Central. At each stop children burst through the train doors, fighting over seats, their laughter and voices filling the carriages.
“Is it okay if we sit here?”
I look up to see three girls, their arms full of heavy bags.
“Of course.”
They sit down, talking as if they have saved up all their words for now. I am reading a magazine but I can’t help eavesdropping on their animated conversation. I look up to steal a glance, to soak up their breathless energy.
One of the girls takes a phone out of the depths of her school bag.
“Can you pick me up from the train station in about twenty? We got out of school early.”
A woman starts to speak as the girl closes her phone and picks up the conversation from before. My heart tugs. I am catapulted back to my teenage days. Was I so dismissive? So blasé about the presence of Mum in my life? My heart tugs again. I know that I wasn’t.
I could have had a daughter like this girl. Quick to dismiss. Or a daughter like me. Quick to love.
I look again at these girls. I want to draw them to me, into my world now. I want them to know the love, the joy, the fear, the holding on, the letting go, how it travels through the years, from your Mum to you and back again.
This is the resolute nature of time. We can’t go back. We can’t go forward. And yet time circles around us, so we learn what it is that ties us to the people we love, so we learn how to give back what we have been given.
A short time later, the train is empty. I hear my phone beep. It’s Mum. Her plane is delayed. She isn’t on her way to the other side of the world just yet. Time gives me time before I need to let go.
By Linda Mueller
My mum is going on holiday to the other side of the world. Alone. At the airport I hug her tight and fight inevitable tears as I say goodbye.
“Have a good time! Stay safe and remember to keep your bag close to you.”
“Yes Mummy.” Her smile is cheeky, her voice reassuring.
“And I love you.”
“Love you too.”
My heart is racing, irrational fear worming its way through my body. I want to say so much more than I love you. I want to tell Mum how I always needed her even if it appeared I didn’t, how I hoped I’d always been there for her the way she had been there for me.
Reason tells me I can’t blurt all that out. Mum deserves to have a joyful journey not have my anxiety as her travelling companion. So I stifle the fear and push away the words that might frighten her.
Then she is gone, the Customs queue sweeping her away from me. I stand there for a few moments, expecting one last smile or wave. Now the train waits, to take me back home. Alone.
Mum held my hand until I could stand on my own. She knew when it was the right time to let go, when to let me fall, when to wait for me to get back up again and find my way.
Through the years, Mum walked beside me and away from me, knowing how to let go without ever really letting go. Today it is my turn.
It is the end of the school day by the time the train begins to snake its way out of Central. At each stop children burst through the train doors, fighting over seats, their laughter and voices filling the carriages.
“Is it okay if we sit here?”
I look up to see three girls, their arms full of heavy bags.
“Of course.”
They sit down, talking as if they have saved up all their words for now. I am reading a magazine but I can’t help eavesdropping on their animated conversation. I look up to steal a glance, to soak up their breathless energy.
One of the girls takes a phone out of the depths of her school bag.
“Can you pick me up from the train station in about twenty? We got out of school early.”
A woman starts to speak as the girl closes her phone and picks up the conversation from before. My heart tugs. I am catapulted back to my teenage days. Was I so dismissive? So blasé about the presence of Mum in my life? My heart tugs again. I know that I wasn’t.
I could have had a daughter like this girl. Quick to dismiss. Or a daughter like me. Quick to love.
I look again at these girls. I want to draw them to me, into my world now. I want them to know the love, the joy, the fear, the holding on, the letting go, how it travels through the years, from your Mum to you and back again.
This is the resolute nature of time. We can’t go back. We can’t go forward. And yet time circles around us, so we learn what it is that ties us to the people we love, so we learn how to give back what we have been given.
A short time later, the train is empty. I hear my phone beep. It’s Mum. Her plane is delayed. She isn’t on her way to the other side of the world just yet. Time gives me time before I need to let go.
Screw You Science
By Michael Tippett
Humans. We’re a funny lot.
Rushing from this moment to the next on our desperate quest for meaning.
Driven by an existential need to explain things.
We busy our lives. Label our surroundings. Sort each other into boxes.
Fetter ourselves with jobs and debt and plastic souvenirs during our brief stay.
Anything to make some sense of it all.
Faith kept us warm for a while, offering shelter from the primordial chaos.
And then along came Science.
The new kid on the block with the shiny bicycle.
A bratty, in-your-face, know-it-all, some would say.
Science is constantly explaining things. Whether we like it or not.
It’s taken the devil out of disease, the divinity from the stars. Given us monkeys for uncles and poked holes in our dreams when it decreed the moon is not, in fact, made of cheese, but rather, well… moonstuff.
Now, despite its already illustrious career, Science is determined to explain away the one thing that has baffled humankind more than anything else in existence:
Love
Consider this: we, this very instant, cling to a giant ball of rock and metal as it hurtles through a whole lot of mostly nothingness at over 100,000 kilometres an hour. While all this fuss is going on around us, there are approximately 100,000 neurochemical reactions firing in our brains each second.
Astonishing information, courtesy of—you guessed it—Science.
If only our fact-savvy friend had left it at that.
Instead, Science probed deeper inside our skulls and now wants us to believe that certain biological responses are the cause of all our affections.
Fancy that. Love: a chemical reaction.
Combining vinegar and baking soda is a chemical reaction.
Eating beans is a chemical reaction (in my case, quite the volatile one).
But, love?
Surely this springs from something much greater.
A cosmic source.
A celestial stream where muses frolic and the poets prefer to fish.
Or would you rather classify my devotion for family as some form of genetic programming? Perhaps filed under Biochemical Sequence #39758
No.
Screw you, Science.
You can have Evolution. The stars and your cheese-free moon.
But love is unquantifiable, flourishing beyond the scrutiny of a microscope.
It belongs to the bards.
The romantics.
The occasional reality television show.
So, move along. Find something else to engage your formidable intellect.
You could always work on the flying car you promised me all those years ago.
I’m sure I would love it.
By Michael Tippett
Humans. We’re a funny lot.
Rushing from this moment to the next on our desperate quest for meaning.
Driven by an existential need to explain things.
We busy our lives. Label our surroundings. Sort each other into boxes.
Fetter ourselves with jobs and debt and plastic souvenirs during our brief stay.
Anything to make some sense of it all.
Faith kept us warm for a while, offering shelter from the primordial chaos.
And then along came Science.
The new kid on the block with the shiny bicycle.
A bratty, in-your-face, know-it-all, some would say.
Science is constantly explaining things. Whether we like it or not.
It’s taken the devil out of disease, the divinity from the stars. Given us monkeys for uncles and poked holes in our dreams when it decreed the moon is not, in fact, made of cheese, but rather, well… moonstuff.
Now, despite its already illustrious career, Science is determined to explain away the one thing that has baffled humankind more than anything else in existence:
Love
Consider this: we, this very instant, cling to a giant ball of rock and metal as it hurtles through a whole lot of mostly nothingness at over 100,000 kilometres an hour. While all this fuss is going on around us, there are approximately 100,000 neurochemical reactions firing in our brains each second.
Astonishing information, courtesy of—you guessed it—Science.
If only our fact-savvy friend had left it at that.
Instead, Science probed deeper inside our skulls and now wants us to believe that certain biological responses are the cause of all our affections.
Fancy that. Love: a chemical reaction.
Combining vinegar and baking soda is a chemical reaction.
Eating beans is a chemical reaction (in my case, quite the volatile one).
But, love?
Surely this springs from something much greater.
A cosmic source.
A celestial stream where muses frolic and the poets prefer to fish.
Or would you rather classify my devotion for family as some form of genetic programming? Perhaps filed under Biochemical Sequence #39758
No.
Screw you, Science.
You can have Evolution. The stars and your cheese-free moon.
But love is unquantifiable, flourishing beyond the scrutiny of a microscope.
It belongs to the bards.
The romantics.
The occasional reality television show.
So, move along. Find something else to engage your formidable intellect.
You could always work on the flying car you promised me all those years ago.
I’m sure I would love it.
Love's Circle
By Julie Brougham
The ABC TV reporter is talking, walking through a small ruined village near Mosul: sounds and images that are an everyday on our daily news; the moving wallpaper on our TV screens. In a shattered church, one brief still-shot of a blue-eyed plaster Jesus, staring up from the floor of the roofless church, grips me. Did ISIS smash him because of his incongruity, because of his pink-white skin colour in a place where olive-brown is commonest? Was he a stranger in a foreign land? Or was it hatred of a statue from a factory making devotional objects; of his hollow idol-ness?
In this ancient village, in this ancient nation live Christians and Muslims, targets of the missiles and rockets fired by other Muslims and other Christians. It has the grotesque feel of a poorly researched and badly scripted version of the eleventh century crusades.
The newsfeed shows the Shiite warriors in this Sunni village firing random lead at ISIS targets through a shattered wall. Strange trinity at war with one another. A real Jesus, if he appeared in this village, would be torn between the three for all claim him as prophet.
‘Love one another as you love yourself’. Yes, well, this is hate sent from one combatant tribe to another, round and around the circle, the giving and receiving of hate and none have time to hate or love themselves. None are meek and who would want to inherit this abandoned earth or the dead skull buildings from which all life and colour has been spilled?
The TV reporter talks with a young man whose face and voice is lit with joy, joy like that of a lover or new father. His joy is for the liberation by men with more guns, better organisation and much better intel of this small village from the few remaining ISIS fighters. Behind him, on the screen, black smoke rises from the flattened building covering the bodies of those now-dead men. Near them a woman is wailing and waving her arms around in a whirl of grief and anger against . . . who? ISIS took over her village, the fight against them took her kin, now the victorious saviours have taken her home. The unholy trinity has brought no peace to her on this earth.
If plaster Jesus could weep, he would.
By Julie Brougham
The ABC TV reporter is talking, walking through a small ruined village near Mosul: sounds and images that are an everyday on our daily news; the moving wallpaper on our TV screens. In a shattered church, one brief still-shot of a blue-eyed plaster Jesus, staring up from the floor of the roofless church, grips me. Did ISIS smash him because of his incongruity, because of his pink-white skin colour in a place where olive-brown is commonest? Was he a stranger in a foreign land? Or was it hatred of a statue from a factory making devotional objects; of his hollow idol-ness?
In this ancient village, in this ancient nation live Christians and Muslims, targets of the missiles and rockets fired by other Muslims and other Christians. It has the grotesque feel of a poorly researched and badly scripted version of the eleventh century crusades.
The newsfeed shows the Shiite warriors in this Sunni village firing random lead at ISIS targets through a shattered wall. Strange trinity at war with one another. A real Jesus, if he appeared in this village, would be torn between the three for all claim him as prophet.
‘Love one another as you love yourself’. Yes, well, this is hate sent from one combatant tribe to another, round and around the circle, the giving and receiving of hate and none have time to hate or love themselves. None are meek and who would want to inherit this abandoned earth or the dead skull buildings from which all life and colour has been spilled?
The TV reporter talks with a young man whose face and voice is lit with joy, joy like that of a lover or new father. His joy is for the liberation by men with more guns, better organisation and much better intel of this small village from the few remaining ISIS fighters. Behind him, on the screen, black smoke rises from the flattened building covering the bodies of those now-dead men. Near them a woman is wailing and waving her arms around in a whirl of grief and anger against . . . who? ISIS took over her village, the fight against them took her kin, now the victorious saviours have taken her home. The unholy trinity has brought no peace to her on this earth.
If plaster Jesus could weep, he would.
The Colours of Love
By Anthony Wood
The nib of love’s pen inscribes the pages of my life’s journal every day. Each morning starts with a new sheet and, as my pen shapes letters into words, sentences of different colours reflect a rainbow of emotion.
As the ink flows, I attempt to illustrate the simple acts of giving and receiving. A morning hug bursts onto my page with a flush of bright fuchsia and laughter over breakfast flashes a sunny yellow. A child’s lunchbox is a warm orange and the smell of shared coffee, an earthy chestnut.
I start from grey as I write myself into the page but a red-passion soon overtakes me. Excitement lifts beneath and, with a rush, my nib scratches faster until the flight of ideas eclipse the speed that I can record them. Affirming words, kind acts, a meal cooked, washed dishes, a mown lawn, a nappy changed, a painted wall, a gift given.
I pause for a moment as my thoughts slow and I return to a calmer state of amethyst while I take the time to reflect on a cobalt sky beyond the window.
After a short time, the red again ignites and, in my mind, I hurtle through the countless hues and tones; the tints and shades; the dyes and washes. Along the way, I find it is the small pleasures salvaged from the mundane-grey that compose the larger narrative of my life.
After the day is written, I see the rainbow of my words fade to a drab monochrome - black on white. I know the colours are still there and, when the text is next read, they will return.
In the evening, the peach of dusk accompanies dinner and family conversation. As we talk, much of my day remains untold as the stories coloured by love don’t warrant explanation.
By Anthony Wood
The nib of love’s pen inscribes the pages of my life’s journal every day. Each morning starts with a new sheet and, as my pen shapes letters into words, sentences of different colours reflect a rainbow of emotion.
As the ink flows, I attempt to illustrate the simple acts of giving and receiving. A morning hug bursts onto my page with a flush of bright fuchsia and laughter over breakfast flashes a sunny yellow. A child’s lunchbox is a warm orange and the smell of shared coffee, an earthy chestnut.
I start from grey as I write myself into the page but a red-passion soon overtakes me. Excitement lifts beneath and, with a rush, my nib scratches faster until the flight of ideas eclipse the speed that I can record them. Affirming words, kind acts, a meal cooked, washed dishes, a mown lawn, a nappy changed, a painted wall, a gift given.
I pause for a moment as my thoughts slow and I return to a calmer state of amethyst while I take the time to reflect on a cobalt sky beyond the window.
After a short time, the red again ignites and, in my mind, I hurtle through the countless hues and tones; the tints and shades; the dyes and washes. Along the way, I find it is the small pleasures salvaged from the mundane-grey that compose the larger narrative of my life.
After the day is written, I see the rainbow of my words fade to a drab monochrome - black on white. I know the colours are still there and, when the text is next read, they will return.
In the evening, the peach of dusk accompanies dinner and family conversation. As we talk, much of my day remains untold as the stories coloured by love don’t warrant explanation.
Dear Dad
by Chris Hardwick
Dear Dad,
Thanks for the photo of us when I was three. I have a good grip on your hair. Mind you, I don’t think your hairline suffered much, you still have a good crop. I can still taste those salty chips. The sound of that packet must’ve hurt your ears.
You said I look scared in the photo. I might’ve been, I only remember feeling safe on your shoulders or in your arms. You also said that you hadn’t been a good Dad, that you didn’t know what to do. You’ve said that a few times.
Who knows how to be a good Dad? I don’t. I make it up as I go . . . not quite, I do use the lessons you taught me over the years, some of them in David Jones - we went there quite a lot and sometimes we would lose each other. But I could always find you with my ears, hear you chatting to a sales person. Your big voice was a failsafe sonic homing beacon.
You taught me, by example, to treat everyone with dignity. It didn’t matter if it was a cleaner or the Queen (not that you’ve met the Queen but we did see her at Civic Park once). You gave each person the same regard often with a smile and a laugh. If needed, you would sit with people with their tears and fears.
It wasn’t all smooth sailing. At times, as a teenager, the son of a teacher and my own depression, you weren’t my favourite person. I was a strange creature with foreign feelings who felt alone in the world and I often felt separate to you.
Music was different. You encouraged me to become a musician. You were my piano teacher, my music coach, my accompanist. And my audience - you often just sat and listened.
That is why, when you had a stroke, I felt a great sadness. Apart from seeing you lose your independence, the struggle you have with speaking and the need to have a carer at all times, I lost my accompanist and I lost being able to see and hear you play.
Fortunately, you didn’t lose all of your music skills. You can still pass on your knowledge and you still encourage me. Best of all, we are still playing music together. You manage miracles in spite of your uncooperative hands.
You demonstrated how to be a good man. You introduced me to Christ and God’s love. You taught me to value all people, even though they might be difficult. Now, I want you to stop using Slappy Slappy Therapy on yourself - it doesn’t help (although I think Mum wants to use it on you at times.) You have lived a loving life, which is a difficult thing to do in a world that teaches selfishness. You are a good man.
All my love,
Your Number Three Son,
Christopher
by Chris Hardwick
Dear Dad,
Thanks for the photo of us when I was three. I have a good grip on your hair. Mind you, I don’t think your hairline suffered much, you still have a good crop. I can still taste those salty chips. The sound of that packet must’ve hurt your ears.
You said I look scared in the photo. I might’ve been, I only remember feeling safe on your shoulders or in your arms. You also said that you hadn’t been a good Dad, that you didn’t know what to do. You’ve said that a few times.
Who knows how to be a good Dad? I don’t. I make it up as I go . . . not quite, I do use the lessons you taught me over the years, some of them in David Jones - we went there quite a lot and sometimes we would lose each other. But I could always find you with my ears, hear you chatting to a sales person. Your big voice was a failsafe sonic homing beacon.
You taught me, by example, to treat everyone with dignity. It didn’t matter if it was a cleaner or the Queen (not that you’ve met the Queen but we did see her at Civic Park once). You gave each person the same regard often with a smile and a laugh. If needed, you would sit with people with their tears and fears.
It wasn’t all smooth sailing. At times, as a teenager, the son of a teacher and my own depression, you weren’t my favourite person. I was a strange creature with foreign feelings who felt alone in the world and I often felt separate to you.
Music was different. You encouraged me to become a musician. You were my piano teacher, my music coach, my accompanist. And my audience - you often just sat and listened.
That is why, when you had a stroke, I felt a great sadness. Apart from seeing you lose your independence, the struggle you have with speaking and the need to have a carer at all times, I lost my accompanist and I lost being able to see and hear you play.
Fortunately, you didn’t lose all of your music skills. You can still pass on your knowledge and you still encourage me. Best of all, we are still playing music together. You manage miracles in spite of your uncooperative hands.
You demonstrated how to be a good man. You introduced me to Christ and God’s love. You taught me to value all people, even though they might be difficult. Now, I want you to stop using Slappy Slappy Therapy on yourself - it doesn’t help (although I think Mum wants to use it on you at times.) You have lived a loving life, which is a difficult thing to do in a world that teaches selfishness. You are a good man.
All my love,
Your Number Three Son,
Christopher
Kaspar Paseko's new novel 'Ordinary Things' is now available online and from The Press Book House in Newcastle.
An abducted child lives in a car on the roads of America. In Japan an old woman begs in a computer game arcade. In Mexico the lords of the underworld challenge the living to a deadly game. In Kinshasa a former child soldier sells drugs to survive while in Australia a man struggles to raise a kid between fast food, amphetamines and brushes with suicide. Ordinary Things connects everyday objects to global stories of love, food, culture and death. Exploring layers of literature, history and myth beneath the surface of mundane modern rituals, this is a novel about driving to work and Japanese poetry, slavery and telemarketing, war in the Congo, coin operated noodle bars, and crossroads. Kaspar Paseko grew up in Australia and travelling in North America, Europe, Africa and Asia. He continues to live in Australia, has a Phd in literature, makes a living in IT, reads and writes and is a member of Hunter Writers Centre.
An abducted child lives in a car on the roads of America. In Japan an old woman begs in a computer game arcade. In Mexico the lords of the underworld challenge the living to a deadly game. In Kinshasa a former child soldier sells drugs to survive while in Australia a man struggles to raise a kid between fast food, amphetamines and brushes with suicide. Ordinary Things connects everyday objects to global stories of love, food, culture and death. Exploring layers of literature, history and myth beneath the surface of mundane modern rituals, this is a novel about driving to work and Japanese poetry, slavery and telemarketing, war in the Congo, coin operated noodle bars, and crossroads. Kaspar Paseko grew up in Australia and travelling in North America, Europe, Africa and Asia. He continues to live in Australia, has a Phd in literature, makes a living in IT, reads and writes and is a member of Hunter Writers Centre.
Request to the Heart Surgeon
by Gail Hennessy You will be handling my lover’s heart go carefully and slowly make sure you have slept well the night before and that your hands are steady I believe you will stop his heart I used to do that when we were young or almost. I will be waiting outside the theatre for your news, ready to enter the intensive care unit. You had best use every skill at your finger tips I implore that you are methodical and careful that you choose well the replacement veins from his leg and stitch neatly and when you enter his chest cavity do so with utmost care, slice, peel back as you would soft fruit, gently be aware that you are mending two hearts for his heart is also mine. |
My Grandmother Died When I Was Ten
by Stef Strazzari
My Grandmother died when I was ten. She was the oldest in the family and I was the youngest. That seemed to draw us together. She was gentle and kind and I liked to brush her short, white hair. She was forever teaching me how to crochet and knit and never lost patience. I loved her baked pumpkin and eating tinned spaghetti at her place. As my father was Italian we didn’t have tinned spaghetti at home. It’s funny, I wouldn’t touch tinned spaghetti now.
One day, during the Christmas school holidays, she grew sick. Very sick. I was with her and had to call Mum. Mum came and Grandma was taken to hospital.
The first time I saw her again she was rigged up to machines and tubes, all of us wondering if she’d wake up again. It was a cold and gloomy Christmas day at my Aunt’s. I watched a movie one day with the neighbours and swam at the pool another day. But the Christmas holiday was shifts in the hospital for Mum and her sister in the small hospital room, me sometimes with her. Grandma did rally. She woke. We had hope. She looked me in the eye and held my hand. “My sunshine” she said. But she left us while I was there. I was reading a book about a lion, a Golden Circle book – a book that belonged to the hospital. Mum told me to come and say goodbye and that, silently, she had gone. I kissed Grandma on her forehead which was still warm and I remember thinking I couldn’t believe I would never see her again.
The family went to her bedsit to organise what would happen with her things. It was cramped with all of us in there. It didn’t feel like her place anymore, the weird and seemingly utilitarian job of dividing her worldly possessions, going through all her cupboards.
I remember the funeral too. The church was packed, full of her family and friends and friends and family of her children. I don’t suppose the mass meant much to me but when we were walking down the aisle I saw Mrs McGann. My eyes welled up. I smiled at her but averted by gaze because I wanted to bawl. I wanted to bawl because she was my lovely Sunday school teacher and she had come just for me to acknowledge my loss.
by Stef Strazzari
My Grandmother died when I was ten. She was the oldest in the family and I was the youngest. That seemed to draw us together. She was gentle and kind and I liked to brush her short, white hair. She was forever teaching me how to crochet and knit and never lost patience. I loved her baked pumpkin and eating tinned spaghetti at her place. As my father was Italian we didn’t have tinned spaghetti at home. It’s funny, I wouldn’t touch tinned spaghetti now.
One day, during the Christmas school holidays, she grew sick. Very sick. I was with her and had to call Mum. Mum came and Grandma was taken to hospital.
The first time I saw her again she was rigged up to machines and tubes, all of us wondering if she’d wake up again. It was a cold and gloomy Christmas day at my Aunt’s. I watched a movie one day with the neighbours and swam at the pool another day. But the Christmas holiday was shifts in the hospital for Mum and her sister in the small hospital room, me sometimes with her. Grandma did rally. She woke. We had hope. She looked me in the eye and held my hand. “My sunshine” she said. But she left us while I was there. I was reading a book about a lion, a Golden Circle book – a book that belonged to the hospital. Mum told me to come and say goodbye and that, silently, she had gone. I kissed Grandma on her forehead which was still warm and I remember thinking I couldn’t believe I would never see her again.
The family went to her bedsit to organise what would happen with her things. It was cramped with all of us in there. It didn’t feel like her place anymore, the weird and seemingly utilitarian job of dividing her worldly possessions, going through all her cupboards.
I remember the funeral too. The church was packed, full of her family and friends and friends and family of her children. I don’t suppose the mass meant much to me but when we were walking down the aisle I saw Mrs McGann. My eyes welled up. I smiled at her but averted by gaze because I wanted to bawl. I wanted to bawl because she was my lovely Sunday school teacher and she had come just for me to acknowledge my loss.
God's waiting room
by Andrea Apitz
I wonder whom God will most resemble? Rodin’s Thinker or Leon Russell?
I begin to walk
I wonder what questions will be asked?
What have I achieved?
Whom have I offended?
Am I worthy of forgiveness?
Have I forgiven everyone who has hurt me?
Have I been a good mother?
Have I been a good friend?
A good daughter, a good sister a good grandchild, a good daughter in law, sister in law stepmother or a good divorcee?
A good neighbour, a good teacher, a good student, a good wife, a good driver, a good citizen? A good lover?
A good employer, a good employee, a good Rotarian, a Good Samaritan, a philanthropic soul?
Each footfall brings more questions to mind
Have I achieved spirituality? Can I see my own destiny or my own divinity?
Have I treated my gifts with respect, like my ability to read fast or talk fast or learn to drive on the other side of the road?
Have I been honest to my music, to myself, to others? Can others see my sense of humor or do they see me as droll and boring and self-absorbed?
Have I been Lucky? No, probably not. That one I can answer myself
Can I say that I have risen above myself, been brave and sincere, and enjoyed every moment of my crazy deranged life?
Half way there now.
Have I been astute enough to look after myself with breast exams and colonoscopies and a better-filtered brand of cigarettes to smoke and triple distilled brands of vodka?
Have I worked out enough, treated my body as a temple, regarded its perfectness with respect?
Given my husband enough sex?
Oh, shit, have I been a bitch? A cold-hearted soul? Am I a negative person? Have I treated life's battles with a positive and sensitive soul, or can I be seen as a Debbie-downer, a real bummer, a girl whose past has made her a victim of circumstance, someone to feel sorry for?
Have I given my son enough choices in life to make good decisions, or was I just so hung over that I could not get up and take him to his Bar Mitzvah classes?
Won’t I be judged for these atrocities?
Won’t God detest me these horrible insecurities?
Will I ultimately be written in the book of life upon my death?
Even though I myself have not been bat mitzvohed or gone to temple regularly?
Will God still see me as I see God, with love and deserving of love?
These questions linger on my tongue, on my fingertips, even on my breath as I reach the door at the end of the long hallway.
The sign says: 'Gods waiting room. Take a seat.'
I begin to walk
I wonder what questions will be asked?
What have I achieved?
Whom have I offended?
Am I worthy of forgiveness?
Have I forgiven everyone who has hurt me?
Have I been a good mother?
Have I been a good friend?
A good daughter, a good sister a good grandchild, a good daughter in law, sister in law stepmother or a good divorcee?
A good neighbour, a good teacher, a good student, a good wife, a good driver, a good citizen? A good lover?
A good employer, a good employee, a good Rotarian, a Good Samaritan, a philanthropic soul?
Each footfall brings more questions to mind
Have I achieved spirituality? Can I see my own destiny or my own divinity?
Have I treated my gifts with respect, like my ability to read fast or talk fast or learn to drive on the other side of the road?
Have I been honest to my music, to myself, to others? Can others see my sense of humor or do they see me as droll and boring and self-absorbed?
Have I been Lucky? No, probably not. That one I can answer myself
Can I say that I have risen above myself, been brave and sincere, and enjoyed every moment of my crazy deranged life?
Half way there now.
Have I been astute enough to look after myself with breast exams and colonoscopies and a better-filtered brand of cigarettes to smoke and triple distilled brands of vodka?
Have I worked out enough, treated my body as a temple, regarded its perfectness with respect?
Given my husband enough sex?
Oh, shit, have I been a bitch? A cold-hearted soul? Am I a negative person? Have I treated life's battles with a positive and sensitive soul, or can I be seen as a Debbie-downer, a real bummer, a girl whose past has made her a victim of circumstance, someone to feel sorry for?
Have I given my son enough choices in life to make good decisions, or was I just so hung over that I could not get up and take him to his Bar Mitzvah classes?
Won’t I be judged for these atrocities?
Won’t God detest me these horrible insecurities?
Will I ultimately be written in the book of life upon my death?
Even though I myself have not been bat mitzvohed or gone to temple regularly?
Will God still see me as I see God, with love and deserving of love?
These questions linger on my tongue, on my fingertips, even on my breath as I reach the door at the end of the long hallway.
The sign says: 'Gods waiting room. Take a seat.'
Yesterday
by Eve Gray
We were a pair of white butterflies jinking in such close formation
Each could have been an after image of the other
Fast and intricate dodging and feinting
Left right rising falling
Wings scarcely pumping
Too close to collide
Too far to ever part
Wooing with one mind
Mind going beyond the speed
Of thought or light a perfection
Mirror image subject and shadow
Thought and action music and melody
And yet we were just two ordinary white
Butterflies
Making magic.
by Eve Gray
We were a pair of white butterflies jinking in such close formation
Each could have been an after image of the other
Fast and intricate dodging and feinting
Left right rising falling
Wings scarcely pumping
Too close to collide
Too far to ever part
Wooing with one mind
Mind going beyond the speed
Of thought or light a perfection
Mirror image subject and shadow
Thought and action music and melody
And yet we were just two ordinary white
Butterflies
Making magic.
Grounded
by Deb Arthurs
I lie on my back in the red dust and suck the air of my childhood deep into me. It tastes of dirt, adventure and the raw lusciousness of freedom. The warmth of this earth is special and it spreads through my body like a balm. My aches move into the recesses in my mind and my spirit begins to lift.
This is my country.
I look up into the immensity of the flawless blue sky that embraces me as its tiny insignificant centrepiece. I feel its permanence, the timelessness, and the belonging.
I am home at last.
As a kid I played shoeless on these coppered plains in the heat of a searing sun. We hunted one another for sport and it was pure luck that our aim wasn’t good enough, or we weren’t strong enough, to drive the sharpened spears we’d made home. And somehow we avoided the covered pits full of upturned spears that we had set as traps for one another. Us versus them! Us against the world!
I smile as I recall how invincible I felt as a kid.
I swam naked in the one local dam most days with my brothers. Some days it felt like my skin sizzled as it hit the ice cold water that lay about a foot below the surface.
They were different times then. I remember how a cousin drowned in the dam and how blue and limp he was when they pulled him out. Nowadays you’d lose the rest of your kids for that . . . if you were black that is! We weren’t allowed to swim again for a while. But after a week or so we snuck back. It was too hot not to. We caught yabbies by the buckets full and boiled them in a huge blackened pot on an open fire and we sucked their shells cleaner than the paintwork on a brand new BMW.
It was the only time in my life that I felt like I belonged.
I lived with my grandparents until I was fourteen, when my grandmother died.
The day after her funeral I was taken to live with the white fellas in the city. And it was then I got my first pair of shoes . . . the shoes that walked me away from my culture.
I tumbled into the abyss before I realised I was even at the edge.
I was known in my town as the bastard son of Willy Roberts, the local publican, who was white. His only gift to me was the shame suit which I’ve gotten to wear every day of my life. It matched my bare feet perfectly when I was a kid. You were shunned in the thirties when you were a bastard, especially when you were a half caste black bastard. I feel the bitterness of injustice rise in me, even after all these years; and I swallow it hard.
Not today!
I roll over onto my stomach and scoop up a handful of dirt in my hand. I watch it as it streams through my fingers. So little time left now! No time for anger.
Slowly I stand and inhale the smell of my land one last time, before walking the spinifex path of my childhood back to my car.
by Deb Arthurs
I lie on my back in the red dust and suck the air of my childhood deep into me. It tastes of dirt, adventure and the raw lusciousness of freedom. The warmth of this earth is special and it spreads through my body like a balm. My aches move into the recesses in my mind and my spirit begins to lift.
This is my country.
I look up into the immensity of the flawless blue sky that embraces me as its tiny insignificant centrepiece. I feel its permanence, the timelessness, and the belonging.
I am home at last.
As a kid I played shoeless on these coppered plains in the heat of a searing sun. We hunted one another for sport and it was pure luck that our aim wasn’t good enough, or we weren’t strong enough, to drive the sharpened spears we’d made home. And somehow we avoided the covered pits full of upturned spears that we had set as traps for one another. Us versus them! Us against the world!
I smile as I recall how invincible I felt as a kid.
I swam naked in the one local dam most days with my brothers. Some days it felt like my skin sizzled as it hit the ice cold water that lay about a foot below the surface.
They were different times then. I remember how a cousin drowned in the dam and how blue and limp he was when they pulled him out. Nowadays you’d lose the rest of your kids for that . . . if you were black that is! We weren’t allowed to swim again for a while. But after a week or so we snuck back. It was too hot not to. We caught yabbies by the buckets full and boiled them in a huge blackened pot on an open fire and we sucked their shells cleaner than the paintwork on a brand new BMW.
It was the only time in my life that I felt like I belonged.
I lived with my grandparents until I was fourteen, when my grandmother died.
The day after her funeral I was taken to live with the white fellas in the city. And it was then I got my first pair of shoes . . . the shoes that walked me away from my culture.
I tumbled into the abyss before I realised I was even at the edge.
I was known in my town as the bastard son of Willy Roberts, the local publican, who was white. His only gift to me was the shame suit which I’ve gotten to wear every day of my life. It matched my bare feet perfectly when I was a kid. You were shunned in the thirties when you were a bastard, especially when you were a half caste black bastard. I feel the bitterness of injustice rise in me, even after all these years; and I swallow it hard.
Not today!
I roll over onto my stomach and scoop up a handful of dirt in my hand. I watch it as it streams through my fingers. So little time left now! No time for anger.
Slowly I stand and inhale the smell of my land one last time, before walking the spinifex path of my childhood back to my car.
Spoon
by Grant Palmer
It is a spoon. Not just any spoon. It’s my spoon. I have had it for 31 years - part of the kit I was issued on 22 Jan 85. That’s a long time for a spoon and it’s all I have now to remind me of those early years. Its friends - the knife and the fork - are long gone, the holy trinity of cutlery now only one.
The spoon lived in my army webbing those 32 years, webbing worn comfortable with time, travelling the world with its mate, the Cup Canteen. Everything one needs to concoct the gourmet delights of ration packs Type A, B, C, D, and E: cheese in a can, Corned Beef Hash, Instant Potato with Onion, and biscuits, always smashed; cuisine that would put Heston to shame.
My spoon. Essential to life in the dirt, a “must have to deploy,” we are told. Endless kit checks making sure that we have our spoon. If we didn’t, we obviously weren’t fit to deploy.
My spoon went to Timor, a veteran it now is. Nine months of enforcing the peace. Dining each night, smashed lamb, fish as chewy as armoured vehicle track pad, and Sara Lee butter cake our dessert.
“Can we get some cheese cake?’ Murray hopefully scrawls in the mess suggestion book each night.
Eventually, a response: “Of course.”
We look forward with anticipation as another week passes. Then one night, the menu announces “Cheesecake!” much to our delight. And there it is, in the bain marie at 70 degrees: Sara Lee Butter Cake sprinkled with cheese and placed under the grill. Lucky I had my spoon for so sumptuous a feast.
Now, retired from adventuring with no more stories to make, the telling getting louder and larger, more distant and vague. But one thing still with me, after 32 years: “Stay low, move fast, don’t eat anything bigger than your head … and always carry a spoon!”
by Grant Palmer
It is a spoon. Not just any spoon. It’s my spoon. I have had it for 31 years - part of the kit I was issued on 22 Jan 85. That’s a long time for a spoon and it’s all I have now to remind me of those early years. Its friends - the knife and the fork - are long gone, the holy trinity of cutlery now only one.
The spoon lived in my army webbing those 32 years, webbing worn comfortable with time, travelling the world with its mate, the Cup Canteen. Everything one needs to concoct the gourmet delights of ration packs Type A, B, C, D, and E: cheese in a can, Corned Beef Hash, Instant Potato with Onion, and biscuits, always smashed; cuisine that would put Heston to shame.
My spoon. Essential to life in the dirt, a “must have to deploy,” we are told. Endless kit checks making sure that we have our spoon. If we didn’t, we obviously weren’t fit to deploy.
My spoon went to Timor, a veteran it now is. Nine months of enforcing the peace. Dining each night, smashed lamb, fish as chewy as armoured vehicle track pad, and Sara Lee butter cake our dessert.
“Can we get some cheese cake?’ Murray hopefully scrawls in the mess suggestion book each night.
Eventually, a response: “Of course.”
We look forward with anticipation as another week passes. Then one night, the menu announces “Cheesecake!” much to our delight. And there it is, in the bain marie at 70 degrees: Sara Lee Butter Cake sprinkled with cheese and placed under the grill. Lucky I had my spoon for so sumptuous a feast.
Now, retired from adventuring with no more stories to make, the telling getting louder and larger, more distant and vague. But one thing still with me, after 32 years: “Stay low, move fast, don’t eat anything bigger than your head … and always carry a spoon!”
‘PLAISIR D’AMOUR’ Played on Wine Glasses
By Jean Kent
Today a suede summer evening comes back to visit
the brie-creamy buildings behind
saffron-fringed trees
above the stirred-green sleep of the Seine.
Although already dusk in dark overcoats
has been stalking the foreign lovers,
today a suede summer evening comes back.
Today walking out their steps in time
no longer annoy
twilight’s soft nap. On Pont St-Louis
that man whose mist of music
swirls at twilight from his fingers
is running them again lightly rippling the air
over a little world of goblet-trapped lakes.
Sighs dropped into the water are silvering
scars dissolving absolved
as all the strolling city stops
grave as deer
in a pale, still forest of stone
accepting for one somnambulent hour
‘Plaisir d’Amour’ ―
a faint, tender swoon
fingered out carefully over glass.
By Jean Kent
Today a suede summer evening comes back to visit
the brie-creamy buildings behind
saffron-fringed trees
above the stirred-green sleep of the Seine.
Although already dusk in dark overcoats
has been stalking the foreign lovers,
today a suede summer evening comes back.
Today walking out their steps in time
no longer annoy
twilight’s soft nap. On Pont St-Louis
that man whose mist of music
swirls at twilight from his fingers
is running them again lightly rippling the air
over a little world of goblet-trapped lakes.
Sighs dropped into the water are silvering
scars dissolving absolved
as all the strolling city stops
grave as deer
in a pale, still forest of stone
accepting for one somnambulent hour
‘Plaisir d’Amour’ ―
a faint, tender swoon
fingered out carefully over glass.
Don't Give Me Chocolates
By Ann Blackwell
By the time I was three years old I had already had two white nannies. One broke her neck diving into a swimming pool and the other was German who taught my twin sister and me to ‘Heil Hitler.’ My father came into the nursery one morning and we both threw our arms into the air and cried, “Hi Hidler.’ That nannie was fired on the spot.
Then, like magic, Pie slipped into my life. Pie was coloured, which in South Africa meant a mix of black and white. In the pecking order of racism, coloured people were slightly superior to the blacks. I had no idea of what Apartheid meant until I grew older and saw what it was doing to Pie. It was something that crept under my skin as a small child, but it was never talked about openly. It simmered silently in the background and, as I got older, left me feeling confused as to how I should react to Pie.
From the first instant I adored her. My love for her was very intense and demonstrative, with lots of puppy like behavior such as climbing and rolling all over her, hugging, kissing and sucking her face and folding myself into her soft body and being completely uninhibited. One day my mother walked into the nursery looked at my sister and I playing with Pie and her whole body went ridged and her face turned red.
“Carolyn,” she said, “don’t let the twins do that to you.”
Pie got up slowly disengaging herself from us and said, “What Madam?”
“Letting them climb all over you like that and . . .” The atmosphere in the nursery turned cold and, even at four years of age, I could feel that change but I was not sure why.
“Now let’s sit down at the table and show Pie what good manners we have,” my mother said, leading my sister and I to a small table.
Pie was a mother to me, my constant companion; my security blanket and I loved her deeply. I remember her smell, it was a mixture of coconut and cinnamon, I think it was whatever she put in her hair, the feel of her soft body, her crinkly brown face and her soft voice with its thick Cape accent. She got us up in the morning, fed us, scolded us, read us stories, and played with us, and put us to bed again at night. In the evening we were taken into the lounge to say good night to our parents and my mother would say,
“That will be all, Carolyn. We will ring for you when it is time for the twins to go to bed.” My mother sat in a comfortable chair looking gorgeous dressed in a silk jade dress. I watched Pie leave in her white starched uniform and cap back into the kitchen.
When I was nine years old, I stole a box of chocolates from my dad to give to Pie on her birthday. They were in a golden box with a lovely red ribbon and I was certain my dad would not notice. My mother had already left the house, so I met Pie outside the front gate and gave her the chocolates, as she left for her day off.
“Oh, Miss Ann, where did you get these?” She asked shocked.
“One of Dad’s patients gave them to me,” I lied.
She looked at me in a funny way and said, “Thankyou, my precious, but I had better hide them or someone might steal them on the train to Soweto.” She tucked them inside her coat.
On Monday morning Pie did not turn up to make my parents tea at 7am. My mother raged about and her cries of “where the hell is she? And ‘they are utterly hopeless’,“ echoed through the house. My stomach churned and I could not eat my breakfast. I was terrified someone had happened to Pie.
At 11am the front door bell rang and standing on the veranda was a white police officer.
"Is this your servants Pass Book?” He asked.
“Yes, is there a problem Officer?” My mother asked.
“We found her beaten up at Soweto station last night and she has been taken to the native hospital. “ He replied.
“Oh, My God, is she alright?”
“Yes, I think so,” he said. “But we found this box of chocolates hidden under her coat. You can’t trust any of these kaffirs, they steal everything.” He handed mum her Pass Book and the chocolates and walked down the driveway.
I fell to the floor yelling.
“I stole the chocolates, I gave them to her." I was heartbroken and filled with rage and blubbered on. “Oh, please, it wasn’t her.”
My mother put the chocolates under her arm and turned and looked down at me and said, “Get up at once, Ann, and stop being so silly. When Carolyn comes back these chocolates are coming off her wages.’
“But, please mum, I did,” I cried. But she walked past me and was gone leaving me feeling humiliated, guilty, angry and completely helpless.
Pie returned a few days later and I could not look at her. She came into my bedroom and said, “Thank you for the present, Miss Ann, but don’t steal for me,” and left the room with my laundry under her arm
By Ann Blackwell
By the time I was three years old I had already had two white nannies. One broke her neck diving into a swimming pool and the other was German who taught my twin sister and me to ‘Heil Hitler.’ My father came into the nursery one morning and we both threw our arms into the air and cried, “Hi Hidler.’ That nannie was fired on the spot.
Then, like magic, Pie slipped into my life. Pie was coloured, which in South Africa meant a mix of black and white. In the pecking order of racism, coloured people were slightly superior to the blacks. I had no idea of what Apartheid meant until I grew older and saw what it was doing to Pie. It was something that crept under my skin as a small child, but it was never talked about openly. It simmered silently in the background and, as I got older, left me feeling confused as to how I should react to Pie.
From the first instant I adored her. My love for her was very intense and demonstrative, with lots of puppy like behavior such as climbing and rolling all over her, hugging, kissing and sucking her face and folding myself into her soft body and being completely uninhibited. One day my mother walked into the nursery looked at my sister and I playing with Pie and her whole body went ridged and her face turned red.
“Carolyn,” she said, “don’t let the twins do that to you.”
Pie got up slowly disengaging herself from us and said, “What Madam?”
“Letting them climb all over you like that and . . .” The atmosphere in the nursery turned cold and, even at four years of age, I could feel that change but I was not sure why.
“Now let’s sit down at the table and show Pie what good manners we have,” my mother said, leading my sister and I to a small table.
Pie was a mother to me, my constant companion; my security blanket and I loved her deeply. I remember her smell, it was a mixture of coconut and cinnamon, I think it was whatever she put in her hair, the feel of her soft body, her crinkly brown face and her soft voice with its thick Cape accent. She got us up in the morning, fed us, scolded us, read us stories, and played with us, and put us to bed again at night. In the evening we were taken into the lounge to say good night to our parents and my mother would say,
“That will be all, Carolyn. We will ring for you when it is time for the twins to go to bed.” My mother sat in a comfortable chair looking gorgeous dressed in a silk jade dress. I watched Pie leave in her white starched uniform and cap back into the kitchen.
When I was nine years old, I stole a box of chocolates from my dad to give to Pie on her birthday. They were in a golden box with a lovely red ribbon and I was certain my dad would not notice. My mother had already left the house, so I met Pie outside the front gate and gave her the chocolates, as she left for her day off.
“Oh, Miss Ann, where did you get these?” She asked shocked.
“One of Dad’s patients gave them to me,” I lied.
She looked at me in a funny way and said, “Thankyou, my precious, but I had better hide them or someone might steal them on the train to Soweto.” She tucked them inside her coat.
On Monday morning Pie did not turn up to make my parents tea at 7am. My mother raged about and her cries of “where the hell is she? And ‘they are utterly hopeless’,“ echoed through the house. My stomach churned and I could not eat my breakfast. I was terrified someone had happened to Pie.
At 11am the front door bell rang and standing on the veranda was a white police officer.
"Is this your servants Pass Book?” He asked.
“Yes, is there a problem Officer?” My mother asked.
“We found her beaten up at Soweto station last night and she has been taken to the native hospital. “ He replied.
“Oh, My God, is she alright?”
“Yes, I think so,” he said. “But we found this box of chocolates hidden under her coat. You can’t trust any of these kaffirs, they steal everything.” He handed mum her Pass Book and the chocolates and walked down the driveway.
I fell to the floor yelling.
“I stole the chocolates, I gave them to her." I was heartbroken and filled with rage and blubbered on. “Oh, please, it wasn’t her.”
My mother put the chocolates under her arm and turned and looked down at me and said, “Get up at once, Ann, and stop being so silly. When Carolyn comes back these chocolates are coming off her wages.’
“But, please mum, I did,” I cried. But she walked past me and was gone leaving me feeling humiliated, guilty, angry and completely helpless.
Pie returned a few days later and I could not look at her. She came into my bedroom and said, “Thank you for the present, Miss Ann, but don’t steal for me,” and left the room with my laundry under her arm
Going One Way
By Kathryn Fry
I
Among the fortunes of the Lane Cove River,
its shaded shrubs, its wet–weather falls,
a place for breathing long and deep
and flannel flowers, holding what winter light
they can and bringing you
to my thoughts. And in the Berowra Valley,
lobelias rise from fire-grit, blue in their hair-fine
greenery. This country is a sandstone song
that’s flowing now with boronias spreading pink
under angophoras and gums.
It shows me a fern I’ve never seen before
how the creek widens here (its ancient sands,
its stone-crush of ochre at the edge), adds
rapids there, how cocooned it all is from
the sky. In my heart I show you.
Grasstrees crown the slopes with patience.
The track brings a treecreeper, a party
of wrens, a pair of yellow robins. They sing
the score these waters write from sky
to sea. All day I walk, my bones singing us.
II
It’s the music of you I walk with. In August
wedding bush is white brilliance and lace,
eriostemons could be bridesmaids though
their pink is everywhere. Red grevilleas
are fists-full of hope, as winter slips its grip.
At noon, descending to Galston Gorge in mid-air
I want us, you and I, in mid-life’s heat and peace.
Isopogons near a sun orchid, mat rush
by the track. As if I see more, knowing you.
Pea plants in bud, the cluster of christmas bush
to bloom twice (white petals, sepals in red).
Later near Crosslands with the tide ebbing,
the light slanted thin and the day effortless
it seems as the birds, those two flying over,
only where they know.
By Kathryn Fry
I
Among the fortunes of the Lane Cove River,
its shaded shrubs, its wet–weather falls,
a place for breathing long and deep
and flannel flowers, holding what winter light
they can and bringing you
to my thoughts. And in the Berowra Valley,
lobelias rise from fire-grit, blue in their hair-fine
greenery. This country is a sandstone song
that’s flowing now with boronias spreading pink
under angophoras and gums.
It shows me a fern I’ve never seen before
how the creek widens here (its ancient sands,
its stone-crush of ochre at the edge), adds
rapids there, how cocooned it all is from
the sky. In my heart I show you.
Grasstrees crown the slopes with patience.
The track brings a treecreeper, a party
of wrens, a pair of yellow robins. They sing
the score these waters write from sky
to sea. All day I walk, my bones singing us.
II
It’s the music of you I walk with. In August
wedding bush is white brilliance and lace,
eriostemons could be bridesmaids though
their pink is everywhere. Red grevilleas
are fists-full of hope, as winter slips its grip.
At noon, descending to Galston Gorge in mid-air
I want us, you and I, in mid-life’s heat and peace.
Isopogons near a sun orchid, mat rush
by the track. As if I see more, knowing you.
Pea plants in bud, the cluster of christmas bush
to bloom twice (white petals, sepals in red).
Later near Crosslands with the tide ebbing,
the light slanted thin and the day effortless
it seems as the birds, those two flying over,
only where they know.
For My Father
By Patricia Green
You sat there tethered to the wheelchair by a belt to hold you upright, incapable of standing; your left arm a leg of beef, useless, heavy; half your body gone; unable to comprehend; able only to cry as our eyes met. We could not show our devastation. The bodies you gave us obeyed our brains. We stepped on feet that danced. Our skins were plump with youth and wrinkle free.
We did not lose you to death—not then. We lost you to that terrible struggle for rehabilitation, therapy to exploit what remains of the brain after the implosion—making good the detritus. I watched you seeking absolution despite our love—making tea for mum using only your right hand, insisting on independence to prove yourself a worthy partner and father, trying to shuck off the barnacles of life’s failures.
All our lives you had been the anchor, despite so many setbacks. A young man of twenty-six returned from the war full of confidence in the future. Then, another fight; so many mouths to feed, so many children to educate, the world a whirling uncontrollable cycle of failure and new beginnings, always cheerful, always covering up the hurt. We were like parasites leaching all your energy, your hopes, your dreams as you enveloped us with your unconditional love.
Now, you despised yourself. “Weak as a baby” you spat out, in frustration. We could not show how overwhelmed we were. We were bereft. The initial loss was your stroke robbing us of the person we knew. We hid our pain; its violence would have suffocated you.
In years following, I avoided flaunting my wealth – my total control over my body, my strength, my energy, my mind. I tasted shame for my good fortune. Now, as I age, I dread the annihilation that arrives with the loss of independence. I dread living in a body, refusing jumps that once were easy. Now I tread the steps you left behind. I believe I understand.
It was cruel to ask you to step up to the plate as you had done so many times before and become whole, become your old self. We hid our sorrow behind the smokescreen of jokes and bustling activity.
Your death ten years later was as powerful a blow despite our awareness of your deterioration. The pain was as acute – a piercing, piercing loss. We found the words for grief foreign, heavy in our mouths. We had never practised them with each other; had never explored our feelings with each other. We were always too busy pretending nothing had changed.
Now, not one of us could name the sorrow, name the loss. So used to banal jokes, we smothered our grief in platitudes—“He’s at peace now”; “It’s been a long journey.”—and yarns about a vital, laughing father, forever young in our memory. Grief and love trapped inside each one rendered us mute.
By Patricia Green
You sat there tethered to the wheelchair by a belt to hold you upright, incapable of standing; your left arm a leg of beef, useless, heavy; half your body gone; unable to comprehend; able only to cry as our eyes met. We could not show our devastation. The bodies you gave us obeyed our brains. We stepped on feet that danced. Our skins were plump with youth and wrinkle free.
We did not lose you to death—not then. We lost you to that terrible struggle for rehabilitation, therapy to exploit what remains of the brain after the implosion—making good the detritus. I watched you seeking absolution despite our love—making tea for mum using only your right hand, insisting on independence to prove yourself a worthy partner and father, trying to shuck off the barnacles of life’s failures.
All our lives you had been the anchor, despite so many setbacks. A young man of twenty-six returned from the war full of confidence in the future. Then, another fight; so many mouths to feed, so many children to educate, the world a whirling uncontrollable cycle of failure and new beginnings, always cheerful, always covering up the hurt. We were like parasites leaching all your energy, your hopes, your dreams as you enveloped us with your unconditional love.
Now, you despised yourself. “Weak as a baby” you spat out, in frustration. We could not show how overwhelmed we were. We were bereft. The initial loss was your stroke robbing us of the person we knew. We hid our pain; its violence would have suffocated you.
In years following, I avoided flaunting my wealth – my total control over my body, my strength, my energy, my mind. I tasted shame for my good fortune. Now, as I age, I dread the annihilation that arrives with the loss of independence. I dread living in a body, refusing jumps that once were easy. Now I tread the steps you left behind. I believe I understand.
It was cruel to ask you to step up to the plate as you had done so many times before and become whole, become your old self. We hid our sorrow behind the smokescreen of jokes and bustling activity.
Your death ten years later was as powerful a blow despite our awareness of your deterioration. The pain was as acute – a piercing, piercing loss. We found the words for grief foreign, heavy in our mouths. We had never practised them with each other; had never explored our feelings with each other. We were always too busy pretending nothing had changed.
Now, not one of us could name the sorrow, name the loss. So used to banal jokes, we smothered our grief in platitudes—“He’s at peace now”; “It’s been a long journey.”—and yarns about a vital, laughing father, forever young in our memory. Grief and love trapped inside each one rendered us mute.
Love Is Where You Find It
By Julie Suna
If you exclude parents, my first real love was my first husband. If you exclude children, my second real love was my second husband. Then, at the age of 52 came my third real love…Betty.
Full of energy and drive, great to look at and how she loved to share the good times with me. 250 cc, shiny and all mine, Black Betty became the object of my desires. I kept her clean, I kept her polished, and after a bike maintenance course for women, I checked her tyre pressure every week. But as sometimes happens in relationships, the attention slipped and she started to feel less cared for. One day, a red light at the top of a steep hill threw up a new challenge. Then came our first argument. Still in the early stages of love, she protested by throwing herself on the ground. A passing policeman settled the dispute. He picked her up, and after a quick chat, she came back home with me. However, as a result of her increasingly languid demeanor, we drifted apart.
I sought company elsewhere; 650 cc, bright yellow and exciting, Sunshine had me from the very first ride. We travelled everywhere together, sometimes just the two of us, other times in a group. Once a month we would get together with the Girls Ride Out women. Ah, the adventures we had with them. We were rained on, hailed on, and almost blown away by wild wind gusts, but I enjoyed all 100,000 kilometres with her. Our early days together changed me. At 20,000 km’s, we went away to…I guess you would call it a relationship course: Superbike School. We learnt to take the corners well, that’s where I lost my chicken strip. My tyres never looked the same again. But, though we were good together, we too drifted apart. Maybe it was our one and only argument. On our way to Mt. Victoria, she slipped in the gravel. A passing policeman (yes that’s right a passing policeman) saw us. He picked her up but forgot to put down the stand. She fell over again! I don’t think she ever forgave me.
I wasn’t looking for a new love, but apparently that’s when it happens. I saw Blackie. We were a wonderful fit and she brought out the best in me. Tall, dark, beautiful, and a little on the racy side, I introduced her to the Old Pacific Highway, and several times a week we would ride through the exquisitely predictable 45’s, holding the line on one corner before swaying into the next. When they lowered the speed limit to 60 kilometers per hour, we were both devastated. Old habits are hard to break and we still took the corners at a faster speed than was recommended, staying just under 90 to avoid a possible loss of licence.
We’ve been together now for 93,000 kilometres. We still enjoy the wonderful times and I would like to spend the rest of my life with Blackie, but I fear the age difference could become a problem. I know the statistics for 3rd time marriages aren’t great, but so far, we’re holding up well.
By Julie Suna
If you exclude parents, my first real love was my first husband. If you exclude children, my second real love was my second husband. Then, at the age of 52 came my third real love…Betty.
Full of energy and drive, great to look at and how she loved to share the good times with me. 250 cc, shiny and all mine, Black Betty became the object of my desires. I kept her clean, I kept her polished, and after a bike maintenance course for women, I checked her tyre pressure every week. But as sometimes happens in relationships, the attention slipped and she started to feel less cared for. One day, a red light at the top of a steep hill threw up a new challenge. Then came our first argument. Still in the early stages of love, she protested by throwing herself on the ground. A passing policeman settled the dispute. He picked her up, and after a quick chat, she came back home with me. However, as a result of her increasingly languid demeanor, we drifted apart.
I sought company elsewhere; 650 cc, bright yellow and exciting, Sunshine had me from the very first ride. We travelled everywhere together, sometimes just the two of us, other times in a group. Once a month we would get together with the Girls Ride Out women. Ah, the adventures we had with them. We were rained on, hailed on, and almost blown away by wild wind gusts, but I enjoyed all 100,000 kilometres with her. Our early days together changed me. At 20,000 km’s, we went away to…I guess you would call it a relationship course: Superbike School. We learnt to take the corners well, that’s where I lost my chicken strip. My tyres never looked the same again. But, though we were good together, we too drifted apart. Maybe it was our one and only argument. On our way to Mt. Victoria, she slipped in the gravel. A passing policeman (yes that’s right a passing policeman) saw us. He picked her up but forgot to put down the stand. She fell over again! I don’t think she ever forgave me.
I wasn’t looking for a new love, but apparently that’s when it happens. I saw Blackie. We were a wonderful fit and she brought out the best in me. Tall, dark, beautiful, and a little on the racy side, I introduced her to the Old Pacific Highway, and several times a week we would ride through the exquisitely predictable 45’s, holding the line on one corner before swaying into the next. When they lowered the speed limit to 60 kilometers per hour, we were both devastated. Old habits are hard to break and we still took the corners at a faster speed than was recommended, staying just under 90 to avoid a possible loss of licence.
We’ve been together now for 93,000 kilometres. We still enjoy the wonderful times and I would like to spend the rest of my life with Blackie, but I fear the age difference could become a problem. I know the statistics for 3rd time marriages aren’t great, but so far, we’re holding up well.
Last Poem
by Magdalena Ball Every moment is risky. There’s no mistaking the signs fingers crawling about in bed, a sigh, another sigh the ennui of loss tossing me left and right. It’s easy to dismiss all this as my neurosis and you’d be right as you’re always right but you know though neither of us has words to say it, my vulnerabilities as intimately as the inside of your own wrists and cherish them. You can wave a finger and I might cry in the bathroom but at the end of the day when I choke out the last poem we’re fighting the same fight. Writing as I breathe until I can’t itching and fighting grief has always been the flipside of love the deep current in the ocean water flowing always even as we age, we crumble our bodies already dust. Those long nights between wailing and motion these long days of peace and pain a memory only, an imprint and permanent. |
Magdalena Ball runs The Compulsive Reader. She is the author of the poetry books Repulsion Thrust and Quark Soup, the novels Black Cow and Sleep Before Evening, a nonfiction book The Art of Assessment, and, in collaboration with Carolyn Howard-Johnson, Deeper Into the Pond, Blooming Red, Cherished Pulse, She Wore Emerald Then, and Imagining the Future. She also runs a radio show, The Compulsive Reader Talks. Find out more about Magdalena
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