Broken Vases

I hang up the phone and keep driving.

It’s the way back to mum’s house and I’ve taken this road for more than forty years. This afternoon, I take a wrong turn as a reaction to the sideswipe you’ve just given me.

Thirty years gone. I’ve deleted your number.

My heart pounds, as I keep driving, steadying my breath. I turn up the heated seats and arc up the air conditioner. It’s sixteen degrees outside and still, life is feeling awfully stuffy.

Hot butt and cold face.

Bliss.

It appears that I regulate through opposites.

Funny how I haven’t been up this road before. I turned left which always leads uphill.

It’s instinctual.

I had my first day of class today and I rang you to talk about it. That’s all I wanted to do. Share a bit of news.

I’m driving past the red gums and they flower in the winter. The gum nuts have fine strands of pinks and crimsons as skirts. There are pollen dots of yellow on the ends and they dance in bunches in the breeze.

They are one of my favourite things on the planet. The blur as I drive past. The sole reminder of personal history in this moment.

When I speak about nature like it’s my friend, you worry that I’m bypassing.

You have spent your life arranging flowers into beauty. You’ve crafted remarkable art. I watched you make intricate bridal bouquets while listening to hardcore. Those flowers lay there and took it, gratefully.

I tend to find beauty where I am. I find it when I come across something growing without permission. The concept of weeds doesn’t interest me. All this competitive nutrition. My favourite floral arrangements are yellow flowering dandelions through cement. Wildflowers peeking through a rock.

Some seek cracks, others see garden beds.

The trees of my childhood are here with thick trunks and broad canopies. Silver leaves reflect light in a dance. Thick brown bark from yesterday's cracks over the violet beige tones of trunks that grew up on sand.

I was given frangipani cuttings by a neighbour. They sat under the mother tree waiting to lay down roots, like me. Sydney is where my family is from. I had to go there to find out where I’m from too.

You are unaware that my own life is temporarily on loan to my mother. My womb for her is external. I must create a life that holds her and gives her dignity.

I’m here with her.

Knowing her. Understanding her as a woman. It’s tearing me apart. And no-one can see the beauty of it.

Maybe I’ve gone through the mulching machine. It’s been raining and I know how to sculpt myself a new form. That’s what the mud is for.

Adhesive.

I can get life to stick to me again. I can even make recognisable forms. I’m not afraid of getting lost anymore. I adore electronic maps. I watch the representation of me as in blue dot form wiggling around.

My fears are about destinations.

I glance back at maps as I drive, the intersections lay in yellow lines ahead. It’s funny that I’m a small blue dot travelling on a large blue dot hurtling around the sun.

Not a hair out of place with my heated seats and my comfort settings dialled high. Passers by have no idea about how I'm feeling.

Go with the flow and remain unseen.

Remember street directories? I remember when people feared the new streets and redevelopments. Each one would lead to the inevitable revised edition. The cost of buying a new book of maps was real and the sharp plastic edges would cut my fingers.

These street signs are old. The black writing has faded against its galvanised frame. The trees are old too. There’s a stability that’s remained amongst suburbia.

I keep looking at the landscape, looking for a sign. The heated seats are doing their job and remind me that my body is holding my entire life. How do I get stability when I live inside fractured earth?

It’s funny how the lines keep repeating in my head. I was talking about meeting new people. Your reply was “Yes. It’s hard to make friends isn’t it.” I don't know how to respond.

We’ve had a shared journey of seeking connections.

When did our bough break?

I don’t want anything from you but a familiar voice. A little bit of history and someone to tell exciting news to.

Remember when you came to my house for years on end and we would watch Eurovision? One year we featured international cheeses. We ate swiss for Switzerland, dauphinoise for France, cheddar for England, halloumi for cypress, feta for Denmark.

There are four roundabouts on this road and it feels appropriate that I have to do so many twists and turns when travelling in a straight line.

My mother would say that the Mayor must live on this street because roundabouts are still perceived as fancy by older generations. That would have cost the council some money, my dad would always say.

It’s funny how we talk of costs, without ever being specific. There is no measure to the real cost of roads less travelled and the gifts of unknowable destinations.

Cut flowers and ecosystems. Why is this so stressful? Your distance is astounding to me.

How you made a point of saying, “Well I picked up the phone, didn’t I.”

I felt a stab in my shoulder as though the words carried weight. In my mind I see your face and how your lips purse. You stop breathing through your nose when you’re defensive.

There’s that little blue dot wiggling ahead. I can zoom out and get more of an overhead view. I know exactly where I am now.

I don’t need to be a main character in your story. I just wanted to enter a scene here and there, if you’d have me.

Life is asking that I slow down.

Some gardens are made of pavement cracks and opportunity. They ask patience from friendships and a level of trust that surely had been earned after so many seasons together.

Have you forgotten how to witness?

I can drive myself anywhere except to your new life.

I ask if you want me to make you some food. “No thanks. I have heaps of friends who have made me really delicious food.”

You tell me how you know what a rough time I must be having. Then you say, “I’m not a good friend, am I.”

Respect.

Selflessness.

Nobility.

I closed all of my social media accounts to make space for silence. The echo of it though… I’m the stone that keeps rolling and I exist in a state of dance.

I spin with the earth and journey both within and through place. I twirl in kitchens. I spin on the red dusts and I spin for the sky. My knees hurt. My feet ache. My hips don’t work. I’ll spin anyway. It’s my nature.

I respect you and I am simply seeking same. I hope you are happy my friend. I wish you gardens and utter delight. My place is with the wild things though.

I only wished to say hello again. You can’t see the garden that I tend though. My back yard is everywhere.