I once wrote 'she took an egg from the hen house, and it was warm and rough and breakable, like childhood.'
Whose childhood was I writing about?
1988
The kitchen is long, narrow and repressively hot under a tin roof. Light is coming through the brown shutters, the child watches as dust particles become visible and disappear. The child’s Mother is frying the meat in the pan in her disapproving way. A fly is buzzing around, and the Mother keeps taking breaks from frying to swat at it with her tea towel with short, sharp violence. The sudden thwacks make everybody in the small room jump. On cheap plates, dinners are being piled. Lettuce, tomato, buns and fat, to be eaten with our hands. The child’s sister serves herself.
Tugging at my curls, standing in the corner, I’m watching her in her world that I wanted to be part of. She takes mayonnaise and tomato sauce, mixing it together in an orange paste like the colour she has dyed her hair. (Thwack, Mum’s towel flicks the bench) Mum says her hair now doesn’t look like the rest of ours. I will always remember that shade of orange made by her strange tastebuds, not like the colours of the lino covered floor or the lampshade. I think they were orange too, but they could have been blue, maybe green. That orange is so vivid in my memory.
She has a silver earring hanging from one ear, it was a bat, and as the pedestal fan tried to circulate air around the room, it softly flapped against her neck. (thwack). Her feet were bare, I remember because her toes seemed pointed as I looked down at them. I also like to think that her toes were painted red. I think she was humming, but I don’t really remember. I do remember that I once crept into her room when I couldn’t sleep. I laid my blanket on the floor of her cold room. In sleep, her face was so child like it could have been a mirror. I whispered her name. Wake up, I said, getting anxious. But she slept on.
In the kitchen, as she is getting her dinner, I am now clumsily following her. I spread orange paste on my bun too, even though I don’t enjoy the taste. (thwack) Mum makes me have the stuff on my burger that my sister calls rabbit food. I want to sneer at the food like she does, but everyone is shocked if I am rude. She sits on the vinyl chairs in the room, I remember them being brown and sticky. I am hot and my skirt is sticking to my knees. In my memory, she pays no attention to me as I stare at her, the curly haired child following the girl with dyed red hair. (thwack) Now I wonder, was she listening to something I said? Was the window in that room so big, and dark? Did the light overhead really swing like that, in the artificial breeze? (It’s a blackout. There’s nothing to cry about. Mum is with your little sister. She’s too little to be brave like us. We’re just going to light a candle, we don’t mind a bit of dark, do we? No need to cry)
As I chew my burger, trying to take bites as big as hers, she is apart from me. Her image is fuzzy. The little girl watches her, intent on the fast way in which she speaks, uses her hands, throws away words, and crams them into sentences where they probably don’t belong. If I remember correctly, nobody listened to her many words except me. My sister gets up to leave. Were there words spoken that were not her own, that made her leave at that moment? There were so many angry words spoken in our house, I can remember none specifically any more. What I remember now is only my own silence. On the way out, my sister draws a large heart on my child size black board.
For weeks afterwards, the curly haired child no longer let the neighbour’s children use the black board for games of teacher or hangman, alienating some of them forever. There was no way she would let that prefect white chalk heart be smudged away for a silly game.
As soon as the point of the heart is finished, she is gone. I remember waking up from a dream where a red haired girl danced away from me, and for the first time the outside light was switched off, casting my little room into unfamiliar darkness. For the first time, I knew if there was a blackout, I was on my own.
Tugging at my curls, standing in the corner, I’m watching her in her world that I wanted to be part of. She takes mayonnaise and tomato sauce, mixing it together in an orange paste like the colour she has dyed her hair. (Thwack, Mum’s towel flicks the bench) Mum says her hair now doesn’t look like the rest of ours. I will always remember that shade of orange made by her strange tastebuds, not like the colours of the lino covered floor or the lampshade. I think they were orange too, but they could have been blue, maybe green. That orange is so vivid in my memory.
She has a silver earring hanging from one ear, it was a bat, and as the pedestal fan tried to circulate air around the room, it softly flapped against her neck. (thwack). Her feet were bare, I remember because her toes seemed pointed as I looked down at them. I also like to think that her toes were painted red. I think she was humming, but I don’t really remember. I do remember that I once crept into her room when I couldn’t sleep. I laid my blanket on the floor of her cold room. In sleep, her face was so child like it could have been a mirror. I whispered her name. Wake up, I said, getting anxious. But she slept on.
In the kitchen, as she is getting her dinner, I am now clumsily following her. I spread orange paste on my bun too, even though I don’t enjoy the taste. (thwack) Mum makes me have the stuff on my burger that my sister calls rabbit food. I want to sneer at the food like she does, but everyone is shocked if I am rude. She sits on the vinyl chairs in the room, I remember them being brown and sticky. I am hot and my skirt is sticking to my knees. In my memory, she pays no attention to me as I stare at her, the curly haired child following the girl with dyed red hair. (thwack) Now I wonder, was she listening to something I said? Was the window in that room so big, and dark? Did the light overhead really swing like that, in the artificial breeze? (It’s a blackout. There’s nothing to cry about. Mum is with your little sister. She’s too little to be brave like us. We’re just going to light a candle, we don’t mind a bit of dark, do we? No need to cry)
As I chew my burger, trying to take bites as big as hers, she is apart from me. Her image is fuzzy. The little girl watches her, intent on the fast way in which she speaks, uses her hands, throws away words, and crams them into sentences where they probably don’t belong. If I remember correctly, nobody listened to her many words except me. My sister gets up to leave. Were there words spoken that were not her own, that made her leave at that moment? There were so many angry words spoken in our house, I can remember none specifically any more. What I remember now is only my own silence. On the way out, my sister draws a large heart on my child size black board.
For weeks afterwards, the curly haired child no longer let the neighbour’s children use the black board for games of teacher or hangman, alienating some of them forever. There was no way she would let that prefect white chalk heart be smudged away for a silly game.
As soon as the point of the heart is finished, she is gone. I remember waking up from a dream where a red haired girl danced away from me, and for the first time the outside light was switched off, casting my little room into unfamiliar darkness. For the first time, I knew if there was a blackout, I was on my own.
27.11.09
This day last year, I felt how smooth the skin of your back was.
This day last week, I saw a snake slither out on to the freeway. Where I live, with my large growling family with its heart so savage, there are trees so high they hide the sun and long grass with seeds that catch on your skin and end up in our animal’s fur, and we have to cut them out. There are flowers and blossoms that make our noses itchy and our eyes red. There are bright mornings that illuminate the trees that cover the hills. When I am there, I stomp loudly to scare the snakes away.
But I didn’t see a snake there, in the noise, where I thought there might be one. I was alone in my car when I saw it. It slithered and I exclaimed. I looked in my rear view mirror and behind me was a large truck, the kind that carries the trunks of dead trees. The snake carried forward in its sinewy path. I don’t know if it was crushed under the big wheels of that truck. Every time I’ve passed that corner since I’ve forgotten to see if that dead flat snake is there on the side of the road where the bitumen is rough and the colour of rust.
I’ve only seen one snake before, in a car with my first love. I told him not to drive over it, for my mother, who grew up at the foot of the hills, told me that snakes will wrap around the inside of cars and curl there in the warmth and wait. He ridiculed this and told me it was an old wives tale and I wonder all the time if he was right, or if one day I will drive over a snake and get out of my little car and the snake will slither over my feet and bite me when I don’t expect it (that’s if it is at all possible to be surprised by a bite that you have been expecting for so long.)
I came a different way to get here today. On the number plate of the car in front was the two letter name you and only a few others ever call me. I wondered what you’d think if you saw those letters. I don’t think it’d be anything good. You know, I had to throw out the shift I had on that night, because I couldn’t wash out the smell of your house, and you’d ripped the lace. Then, once it was gone, I pretended that it was easy to say goodbye.
This day last week, I saw a snake slither out on to the freeway. Where I live, with my large growling family with its heart so savage, there are trees so high they hide the sun and long grass with seeds that catch on your skin and end up in our animal’s fur, and we have to cut them out. There are flowers and blossoms that make our noses itchy and our eyes red. There are bright mornings that illuminate the trees that cover the hills. When I am there, I stomp loudly to scare the snakes away.
But I didn’t see a snake there, in the noise, where I thought there might be one. I was alone in my car when I saw it. It slithered and I exclaimed. I looked in my rear view mirror and behind me was a large truck, the kind that carries the trunks of dead trees. The snake carried forward in its sinewy path. I don’t know if it was crushed under the big wheels of that truck. Every time I’ve passed that corner since I’ve forgotten to see if that dead flat snake is there on the side of the road where the bitumen is rough and the colour of rust.
I’ve only seen one snake before, in a car with my first love. I told him not to drive over it, for my mother, who grew up at the foot of the hills, told me that snakes will wrap around the inside of cars and curl there in the warmth and wait. He ridiculed this and told me it was an old wives tale and I wonder all the time if he was right, or if one day I will drive over a snake and get out of my little car and the snake will slither over my feet and bite me when I don’t expect it (that’s if it is at all possible to be surprised by a bite that you have been expecting for so long.)
I came a different way to get here today. On the number plate of the car in front was the two letter name you and only a few others ever call me. I wondered what you’d think if you saw those letters. I don’t think it’d be anything good. You know, I had to throw out the shift I had on that night, because I couldn’t wash out the smell of your house, and you’d ripped the lace. Then, once it was gone, I pretended that it was easy to say goodbye.
When am I ever anything but envious?
I envy smoothness and smiles and fecundity, laughter and rage and companionship, sleeping entwined and planning. I look around and see nothing but arid deserts of sameness. Hopes dashed on rocks and loves forgotten like odd socks never paired – they have dried everything up until nothing will grow here.
I get sleepy from the heat, my limbs are impossible to move, so I lie and stare up at the ceiling. There's not enough moisture here to sweat or to cry.
I envy smoothness and smiles and fecundity, laughter and rage and companionship, sleeping entwined and planning. I look around and see nothing but arid deserts of sameness. Hopes dashed on rocks and loves forgotten like odd socks never paired – they have dried everything up until nothing will grow here.
I get sleepy from the heat, my limbs are impossible to move, so I lie and stare up at the ceiling. There's not enough moisture here to sweat or to cry.
22
It’s been 22 days since we last looked at each other. I ask you questions silently.
Do you remember when you asked me if I liked that song you were listening to? Did you hear it on the radio? Were you playing it in your empty beige room? Did you put it on to indulge yourself with thoughts of me, thoughts you shouldn’t have been having? Thoughts about my mouth and the new yours-ness of me, the way I opened to you, the way you’d seen more of me than you ever expected? Do you remember writing ‘I wish I could have spent it with you’? Did I sneak into your attention because you were alone so much? Was I a planned holiday activity? Do you remember?
Even if I am in love with you, all this to say, what’s it to you?
Are you gone forever? Will you be coming back? You are some of the reason I stayed, and yet I find that I am quite able to imagine you existing in this city but not in my life.
Do you remember when you asked me if I liked that song you were listening to? Did you hear it on the radio? Were you playing it in your empty beige room? Did you put it on to indulge yourself with thoughts of me, thoughts you shouldn’t have been having? Thoughts about my mouth and the new yours-ness of me, the way I opened to you, the way you’d seen more of me than you ever expected? Do you remember writing ‘I wish I could have spent it with you’? Did I sneak into your attention because you were alone so much? Was I a planned holiday activity? Do you remember?
Even if I am in love with you, all this to say, what’s it to you?
Are you gone forever? Will you be coming back? You are some of the reason I stayed, and yet I find that I am quite able to imagine you existing in this city but not in my life.
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