Can’t you just see it? The homestead, sitting cheerfully squat in a grove of eucalypts, a happy puff of smoke rising from the chimney. The lights are on. Dusk is deepening to night. Through the widow you can see my mother.
She is soft and golden, reading to me (just a child!) and we both have our backs stretched against the big blue bunk. Its hard wood that bunk-bed but the comfort of my mother’s voice makes it soft, like a nightclub chaise sofa (but that comes later). The book is about chickens, which lay funny shaped eggs.
All day I have been running, like a mad chook! All over the yard; between the branches of that big peach; leaping to the pagoda roof. I got tangled in the vines. They criss-crossed my legs those green tendrils. I breathe a contented sigh of relief.
My mother looks down fondly. She smooths my hair too hard. “My beautiful boy,” she whispers. “My beautiful baby boy.”
And then she’s crying, great racking sobs turning her eyes to beetles, her hair to straw. I know, simply, that she not crying for me. I hug her with my little two-year old arms. I wait it out.
She quiets, slowly. Then looks at me. "My little guy." I sit up straight against the bunk and put my fists on my hips. Stick my bottom lip out like a stoic little policeman. Her mascara is still running. We both laugh. Rolling around on the floor.
Next day she's better. She dresses me in a red jumper; it's real struggle getting my head through the hole! I kick and fuss, all for show and she fusses over my hair, smoothing it down to hard. Like a harpy claw!
Outside there's my head under a beanie (grumble) and lots of teensy-weensy ants under a rock. I wanna feel the air in my hair! Sheesh. All the sky and no little fellers head to land on.
Mother goes down close to the rock on her belly. Her nose sits right beside their trail. They pay her no mind, even though her nose is huge! I can't stop laughing, so I run in a really fast circle.
She's up in a flash and pounces on me. Ha ha ha!
Dad's inside. Mum sits me on the kitchen table. I wriggle on to my knees and reach for dad's hair. I give it a yank and he spins (like a flash! They're so fast at this time). His eyebrows are up. Enormous hairy things. Laughter keeps bursting out at my mouth edges. "Rascal." He is a rotten scolder. Except when he's angry. Which is rare.
