Kiama June 2012

Inside a cupboard

The light seeps under the door and if I concentrate very hard I can just make out the outline of some of the cleaning utensils stored here under the stairs. 

My heart beats faster and faster as I imagine the intruder going stealthily from room to room, ransacking drawers in his search for God knows what. 

The footsteps come closer and I cower in the corner with my eyes firmly shut, hoping and praying that he will not try this cupboard door yet.  

The sound of the footsteps recedes as he moves up the wooden staircase, two steps at a time, and then I hear muffled curses coming from the second bedroom; thank goodness for the new born puppies who have taken over that room and are now running riot through the upper level of the house. 

I need a distraction to buy me some time. 

Then I hear the sound of running puppy feet and pray that the stair gate is still closed.

While these thoughts go through my head I also think about the baby sleeping on the porch in his pram. 

How long will he stay asleep? Has the sun moved him into shadow? Will he wake if he hears the puppies running across the bare floorboards upstairs?

The bedroom doors slam as the intruder goes from room to room, swearing as a puppy, or maybe two, gets under his feet.

My cupboard hideaway begins to feel more claustrophobic as the minutes tick by and the footsteps echo down the staircase.

I finally feel brave enough to carefully find the small light bulb and unscrew it from its fitting, hoping all the while that my intruder will not investigate if the light does not go on.

Then I hear the scratching on the outside of the small oak cupboard door. 

The puppies have found me! 

But where is the intruder?

I hold my breath and again cower into the darkest corner of the cupboard, all the while listening for footsteps on the stairs.

31.8.12 exercise 4

Roses

Wooden box of treasures

The black button sparkles with the light and as I handle it I can see again the front of my Dad’s coat with its many black buttons. He always wore that coat on Christmas Eve when we went out in the late evening snow to midnight Mass. Snuggled in his arms I always felt secure and loved and it was hard to suppress the Christmas excitement as we trudged along the village path to the little candle lit church. I wonder to myself, how many years since he wore that coat? How did I end up with just one button? What happened to the coat?

Next I choose the multi coloured bell. It could be from a Christmas decoration, but I know with certainty that it came from my dear cat Mushka’s collar. He was a fine specimen of a Siamese, a chocolate seal point of the older type who was facing euthanasia; because of his fuller face and larger ears he was not considered true to breed. We rescued him from those heartless breeders and he repaid the reprieve with his everlasting love and devotion. When we finally had to have him put down at the age of 18 I kept his collar and put the bell in my little carved wooden box of treasures.

A square orange wooden bead which could have come from a bracelet or a necklace. Why did I keep this? And then I remember – my best friend Jenny made me a Buddhist mala for my 50^th birthday. I treasured that handmade mala of misshapen beads as it was the last thing I received from Judy. Shortly after my birthday she died tragically in a freak accident while bushwalking in the Blue Mountains; the path she was following collapsed as she rounded a bend and she was thrown to the bottom of the gorge. I kept that mala around my wrist for many years until finally one day the string broke as I was crossing a busy road in Sydney. Beads scattered everywhere on the street and I was only able to save one bead before the traffic lights changed. From then on this bead stayed in my wooden treasure box.

14.12.12

31.8.12

She picked up the baby and held him on her right hip as she adjusted the pram blanket with her left hand. He wriggled impatiently as she hurriedly prepared his bed, pulling the sheet up and tucking it in one handed while trying to entertain the squirming baby.

Then she gently laid him in the pram, covered him with the beautiful hand knitted blanket and prepared for their outing. 

Was it just her imagination, or do babies these days take a lot more looking after; the endless fussing and strapping into prams and car seats and then the endless unstrapping at the other end? 

And also, why did her back always ache interminably at the end of her “play date” day with the grandchild?

She pushed the pram for about fifteen minutes, admiring the beautiful gardens and sociable cats and friendly neighbours they passed until she reached the small shopping centre. 

At last, a well earned coffee for grandma!