I am from dressmaker’s thimbles, from Metters’ gas stoves and days of endless sunshine listening to ‘tick tocks’ drone in hot, dry heat. I am from the old red brick house built by my grandfather, yellow sand and bore water, the mulberry tree that stained our fingers blue.
I am from the warm eggs fresh from the chook pen, the lupins in the park, the cat who had kittens under my bed when I was 10. I am from Nanna Duff’s Christmas lunches and GG’s plastic cockroaches, from Joan and Ray and Min and Bert.
I am from the bossy, the stubborn and the scared. The unpredictable, predictably.
From “don’t iron your hair” and “eat what is on your plate, or I will send it to the starving children of Biafra.”
I am from late night parties, guitar playing songsters, adult games through children’s eyes.
I am from Friday night Baptist Church groups, Congregational Sunday services, Catholic grandparents, and trying to find my own beliefs through mixed teachings.
I’m from Perth, from Fremantle, from the Round House Gaol, from pavlova, lemon butter, from fresh apricot jam on white bread delivered by the baker to my grandmother. I am from the West, long white beaches, moonlight swims, Quokkas.
From the Mother who wept for her lost boys, the brother who knew not of the lost boys, and the boys who never knew they had a sister. I am an only child that isn’t. From secrets, whispers, photos locked away in dark cupboards in yellowing albums with pages grown sticky with age.