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.
