Day 4: Best Childhood Memory

I had a tragically happy childhood, I say tragically because I believe this is probably a disadvantage for a writer. What were my parents thinking? How dare they be supportive and loving! Where was the divorce and misery, the alcoholism or violence?—things I could draw on as a writer?! So, for this reason I found it a bit tricky to decide on just one ‘best’ childhood memory.

I could’ve chosen playing under the sprinkler with my sisters and the neighbourhood kids while our mums sunned themselves on banana lounges; being given musk sticks at Nan's; building sandcastles with my friend Nikki down at Killarney beach then trying to dig tunnels underneath without them collapsing; riding our bikes around & around the court where we lived; or baking scones with Nan. But instead I’m going to share a piece I originally wrote as a poem called ‘In the hospital’ but later expanded into this piece about flying a homemade kite with my Pa.

The Kite

In the hospital you said,

“We used to have fun, you and I, when you were little.”

You held my hand tightly and I couldn’t feel my fingers. I thought that must show there was strength in you yet, even now – your height diminished by the bed and the hospital-white covers, a company logo printed in blue on one untucked corner. I made a study of the linen. You said,

“You were a terror, always knocking down the houses I’d built of cards.”

I had forgotten that but you were right, you would build them just so I could knock them over. I would watch the cards tumble to the tabletop some showing their mysterious value, others displaying patterned backs in blue and white. Shoulders squared.

I leant forward in the uncomfortable chair left for uncomfortable visitors. Smiled. Laughed too loudly. Nodded.

I talked about the kite we built together in your shed. A memory green-tinged by the fibreglass skylight. The kite wouldn’t fly. Over and over you threw it into the air as I ran pulling the string against the prevailing wind only to watch as the kite spiralled out of control, diving into the unforgiving earth. I laughed then, as if the terrible kamikaze flight was funny, but I wanted it to soar. On one spectacular crash landing, the frame broke. You did a hasty repair and, finally, it flew. Weeks later I cried, secretly, to find out you had thrown the kite away. It was only sticks, some string and a garbage bag, but I had wanted to keep it, forever.

In the hospital, you held my hand and said,

“Anyway, ninety-one’s pretty good,” and I laughed as if you were joking, kissed your cheek and left. I walked away as if nothing was wrong, as if you weren’t trying to tell me something important.

Short Story accepted by Verandah

Hi,

I received an exciting email last week telling me that Verandah 24 has accepted a short story of mine for publication! I'm very thrilled and promise to report back about the launch. I can't wait :)

Here is another poem for you.
Cheers,
Deb :)


Thirty-something limbo

When I’m old
I’ll go walking
like I did
as a child,
if I can still get up
if my knees don’t creak
if my back doesn’t ache.

When I’m old
I’ll have the time
to read the books
I should have read
in my youth
and I’ll regret
the lost opportunity
at wisdom.

When I’m old
I’ll get rid of knickknacks
and surround myself
with photographs.
I’ll never watch television,
I’ll see arthouse films.
I’ll remember to breathe
and appreciate
and laugh.
I’ll have long philosophical discussions
with dear old friends,
over tea on the porch.
I’ll wake up early
just to hear birds sing.

And I’ll lament my missing youth
and wish
I was too busy again
for walks and books,
talks and friends.