@Silenus @Mazarita @Teej @Faith-and-Hope @Former-Member
Hi all. This is a piece of flash fiction I wrote from child memories and emotions around my shaky start. WriterMelb
I Remember.
I remember sitting on the grass ten months old. The grass was vibrant green with a large tree overhanging part of the lawn. Looking up into this mass of mysterious brown branches were these round deep red balls. The smell of the cut grass was pungent with shredded daisy's white and yellow starkly scattered on the green. The aroma of cut grass still takes me back to that time. Regularly soft bumps would thud on the ground. Dusty deep red and round I crawled up to one and smelt it. Strangely sweet and sour. I wanted to find out if it was good. I sat back with a clumsy bump and grasped the thing. With both hands I picked it up and pushed it towards my mouth and bit it with my few teeth. Sugary juices ran down my chin as I pushed it into my mouth. Never had I tasted such sweetness. I chewed it around and then swallowed the hard bit. I looked around for more, two more of these red things were on the other side of the grass. I eagerly crawled to those and ate them as well. I had spent the best part of two hours playing outside and ate five blood plums. My mother came out to collect me and the plums. Of course there were none. My sticky hands and face gave me away. My other early memory was watching my father catch sparrows with his bare hands.
He would wait with endless patience crouched down after laying down a small trail of biscuit crumbs. This trail ended with some larger pieces in his hands. I would sit quietly and watch through the french windows. The sparrows would hop closer, suspicious at first. They built their confidence and followed the trail of delicious crumbs into the waiting hands. He gently and quickly closed his fingers and came inside to show me the delicate creature. I remember its head poking though his huge fingers, the startled shining eyes darting everywhere. He then would say time to let it go. We went outside and he knelt down. Placing his hands close to the ground he said, are you ready? Alright then, one, two and three. He gently opened his hands and the tiny bird flitted deep into the nearest bush.
I remember one day my father went to work and didn't come home. I wondered what had happened. Was it something I had done? I just didn't know and could not communicate my fears and feelings. Staying at my Grandmothers house was soothing. My little brother and I enjoyed large boiled eggs for breakfast. The tops neatly cut off with hot toast fingers to dip into the yellow yoke. The many times that I stayed with my grandparents made us very close.
My grandfather was called Burt. I was told to call him Grandpa. With a small child's understanding I muddled the names and called him Pa-Burt. This became the unofficial name that the whole family used. Pa-Burt had a huge workshop at the back of the house. It smelt of tools, oil and freshly cut timber. He would patiently show me different tools and what they did. At three years of age I was not placing random objects in my mouth so much. With the freshly cut saw dust however I could not resist. Grabbing a handful of the sweet smelling stuff I crammed it into my mouth. It was sweet and gluey. My Grandfather knelt down and said,
'it smells great doesn't it. It not for eating though. Here', he held out his hand and I rolled the sticky mess out.
One time he was carefully repairing outdoor wooden furniture. Sanding and filling the gaps with putty. Wet gloss enamel paint has pungent fumes that get into your nose and throat. As he was painting I reached out and touched the paint . My little fingers stuck fast. Pa-Burt gently pulled my fingers off. He said,
'Now have a look. There are your fingerprints! When the paint dries they will be there for ever. Lets clean up your fingers. Touching wet paint is not so good is it.'
These holidays went off and on for six months. An eternity for a small child. I began to spend more time at home but my father was never there. I started to ask my Mum 'Where is Daddy? Where has he gone?'
My mother with tears would say 'he has gone to heaven.' I accepted this but did not really know what it meant.
As a parent myself I learned that small children understand death and its full meaning. When my son was five, his step grandfather died from bone cancer. He saw him become sick and deteriorate. Hours before he died he saw him for the last time. His grandfather was unconscious and groaning and wheezing.
'Why is he making the funny noises daddy?'
'He is very sick and is dying.'
He looked at me and said, 'dead? Like the bird I found in the garden that would not wake up?'
'Just like that,' I said.
When I was eight years of age I was told that my father had died from cancer.
WriterMelb
