Day 12: Something I miss...

Playing under the sprinkler with my sisters. Being cooled to the point of shivering by the spraying water and lying on the hot concrete to warm up before repeating the process over again. Running nearly naked in sun we didn’t know was harming us, across browning grass and scorching concrete.

Sitting on the front step eating icypoles that dripped in red, green or clear from our elbows to puddle stickily on the next step down and gather a fringe of ants.

Day 5: Movies I never get sick of watching...

As a child, our family was one of the first I knew to purchase a video player; it was a family Xmas present. My dad would painstakingly tape movies for us from the television pausing the recording through the ads so that we could watch a film straight through. The movie that got the most screen time in our house was ‘Bugsy Malone’. My sisters and I were enamored with the depiction of prohibition and the speakeasies; the death-by-cream-pie and the old cars; and I was probably more than a little besotted by Scott Baio.

More recently though, I can usually put on a DVD of ‘Whale Rider’ or ‘Juno’, ‘Benny & Joon’ or ‘The Shawshank Redemption’ and still be entertained and moved.

What's on your never-get-sick-of list?

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.