I wasn’t born this way. I’ve had to grow a lot of skin. But even still, I’ll pull the house apart for band aids.

Sometimes at night, if the breeze blows just the right way across my nose, I can smell 1985. It’s jasmine sweet and ticked over with corrugated iron creep and the piney fit of weatherboard. Childhood framed by the simplicity of an Australian sky. Nothing is simple until it’s passed. But each day I cram in another session of “growing up”, imagining it’ll help me with tomorrow.

We all know that height is just a way to get our eyes past tables and kitchen benches. It’s a food thing. But inside, we hold our baby selves, tiny and moon-innocent. We’d cuddle a teddy to get us through some days if we weren’t so bloody tall.

If I could have this year again, I’d hand you the sky in the frame so it could keep you safe. Blue as talcum powder. Sweet as the rain. And no bigger than 8″ x 4″.

                Walking home, a sudden shower
                            galahs swing upside down on power lines
                  I could join their shrieking

Written for Haibun Wednesday at Go Dog Go Cafe with Donna.”Grief”

20 thoughts on “Grief

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