Friday, November 26, 2010
brushstrokes..
It’s late here..I'm tired from the drive down to Morwell today but want to put down something before I go to bed. Something about mum and being with her on a wet November afternoon. She’d been out at an activities day organised by the health services at her local council.. She looked tired but better than she's been for some months.. We had a look at the garden.. I swept the path that was covered in rain-soaked pink fuchsia buds and made tea for the two of us.. An omelette which she seemed to enjoy. We watched the news as we ate and saw a boy from Morwell take a hat-trick at the Gabba.. I still don't know how much she actually sees.. Before I left to go home, as we stood together in the kitchen she picked up a brush and did my hair. . It’d been raining through the afternoon and the back of my head had gotten wet. . as she pushed the bristles through, so lightly that the ends flicked up around the sides of my ears, I remembered how she dried and combed my hair when i was young, how safe i felt tucked into her chest, how calm and strong her hands were and as I stood there at the bench trying with all my might to stay in the moment stay in the real and now with her at 92 and me touching 60, stay in this holy moment and hear her telling me I have good hair and I feel so loved, so young..
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wayne..
Wayne died on Thursday. He lived on his own across the road at 17. I thought something was up when I went outside about 6 and saw a group of people standing in the front yard of his house. Some were on mobiles, a few were smoking. His sister appeared from the back and went up to the house but no one followed her in. I tossed out the tealeaves, broke off a few spent geranium flowers and went inside.
Wayne barracked for Collingwood and during the season the front window of the house featured a Weg Magpie poster. Grand final day started early over there. Even when his side wasn’t playing he still flew the flag. The side gate would swing open around 9 and all morning his mates would be up and down that drive carrying in the supplies.
He liked a drink and was quite overweight. His parties were legendary. He held them for just about anything. Mostly they were loud. In the early days of living on his own they didn’t finish too well. Around 2 or 3 am when the music would have begun to tone down, there’d be an argument or a bit of shouting and on a couple of occasions I remember women screaming to stop what must have been a fight. It wasn’t Wayne’s fault though. His friends were the wild ones. A few times I went over in the morning to complain about the fact that we’d hardly slept and he’d look down at the ground and shake his head as if he couldn’t believe it either.
I liked his parents. They were an old-fashioned couple who’d lived in the area all their lives. Sonny retired from working at the Heinz factory in Dandenong not long after we moved here and I remember seeing him going off in a mate’s car each week in a white shirt and black trousers carrying a piano accordion on his lap. He played in the local senior citizen’s band. Rhoda pottered about in the garden looking after a few roses. On Sunday afternoons she’d be in an apron standing at the top of the steps waving her children and grandchildren goodbye.
They died within a year of each other and because Wayne was the only one of their kids who wasn’t married, he just stayed on. He wasn’t too flash with looking after the place. When the canvas awnings began to tear and then fray into strips that fluttered in the breeze, Wayne didn’t bother replacing them or even pull up the inside blinds. The house took the full strength of the afternoon sun and that was that. It was enough for him to mow the lawns and put out the bins on a Sunday evening. His mates would sit on the front steps smoking and having a beer. I don’t know what sort of a job he had. For some years he drove a yellow mini minor with a bumper sticker that said Don’t look too closely, your daughter might be inside.
I never saw him with a girl.
His nickname was Bluey, he was a committeeman with the local cricket club and the scorer for many years. I doubt if he ever missed a game.
Beyond a smile and wave when we were out the front at the same time, I only had a few conversations with him. One night I was home alone during an earth tremor and met him on the road when I went outside to see what had happened. He didn’t have a lot to say. We both laughed and said we’d meet again if the house fell down.
On Thursday night I went to my brother’s for his birthday and when I arrived home a fellow was standing on the porch. He told my husband and me that his cousin Wayne had suffered a heart attack in the afternoon. Apparently he’d been unwell for a couple of weeks but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. An ambulance crew called and took him to hospital but he died soon afterwards. By 4.30 his mates at the pub knew.
He was 48.
Tonight it’s Saturday night and not one light’s on at no 17. I look across the road and just see an empty house.
Wayne barracked for Collingwood and during the season the front window of the house featured a Weg Magpie poster. Grand final day started early over there. Even when his side wasn’t playing he still flew the flag. The side gate would swing open around 9 and all morning his mates would be up and down that drive carrying in the supplies.
He liked a drink and was quite overweight. His parties were legendary. He held them for just about anything. Mostly they were loud. In the early days of living on his own they didn’t finish too well. Around 2 or 3 am when the music would have begun to tone down, there’d be an argument or a bit of shouting and on a couple of occasions I remember women screaming to stop what must have been a fight. It wasn’t Wayne’s fault though. His friends were the wild ones. A few times I went over in the morning to complain about the fact that we’d hardly slept and he’d look down at the ground and shake his head as if he couldn’t believe it either.
I liked his parents. They were an old-fashioned couple who’d lived in the area all their lives. Sonny retired from working at the Heinz factory in Dandenong not long after we moved here and I remember seeing him going off in a mate’s car each week in a white shirt and black trousers carrying a piano accordion on his lap. He played in the local senior citizen’s band. Rhoda pottered about in the garden looking after a few roses. On Sunday afternoons she’d be in an apron standing at the top of the steps waving her children and grandchildren goodbye.
They died within a year of each other and because Wayne was the only one of their kids who wasn’t married, he just stayed on. He wasn’t too flash with looking after the place. When the canvas awnings began to tear and then fray into strips that fluttered in the breeze, Wayne didn’t bother replacing them or even pull up the inside blinds. The house took the full strength of the afternoon sun and that was that. It was enough for him to mow the lawns and put out the bins on a Sunday evening. His mates would sit on the front steps smoking and having a beer. I don’t know what sort of a job he had. For some years he drove a yellow mini minor with a bumper sticker that said Don’t look too closely, your daughter might be inside.
I never saw him with a girl.
His nickname was Bluey, he was a committeeman with the local cricket club and the scorer for many years. I doubt if he ever missed a game.
Beyond a smile and wave when we were out the front at the same time, I only had a few conversations with him. One night I was home alone during an earth tremor and met him on the road when I went outside to see what had happened. He didn’t have a lot to say. We both laughed and said we’d meet again if the house fell down.
On Thursday night I went to my brother’s for his birthday and when I arrived home a fellow was standing on the porch. He told my husband and me that his cousin Wayne had suffered a heart attack in the afternoon. Apparently he’d been unwell for a couple of weeks but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. An ambulance crew called and took him to hospital but he died soon afterwards. By 4.30 his mates at the pub knew.
He was 48.
Tonight it’s Saturday night and not one light’s on at no 17. I look across the road and just see an empty house.
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