Aunt Helena’s Owl

We came running up the path to the front door, under the grand old veranda. Uncle Mac’s light blue station wagon was parked haphazardly on the street out the front. I was first up the path, as the eldest and for the time being, still the fastest. I could see my footprints in the snow behind me, marking my path with regular little ovals at irregular intervals. There was moisture in my hair, both from excitement and the sprinkle of rain that you could feel but not see. Jerry ran up behind me, his wispy hair catching the glare. The orange tinge not too unlike my own that I’d grow to hate, and then love again.

Mum was there with Aunt Helena. I hadn’t seen her in a child’s “years.” I recall thinking she looked older and frailer than I remembered, but beyond that initial thought, it didn’t cross my mind again, until it did.

We loved that old house. It’s one of those places that has grown larger in my mind since childhood. I’m sure if I was to see it again I would be both under- and overwhelmed, at how this place of such rich memory had aged and fallen to pieces, and at how much I had done the same.

We would play in the barn out back for hours every day and into the evening to watch the stars through the holes in the galvanised roof. When the clouds cleared, we would try to count them. We never saw anything like it at home. This, and Aunt Helena’s famous shortbread recipe, were the highlights of our time there.

One night, we were lying there with hair full of hay and stomachs full of shortbread, counting the stars, when a gust of wind blew in from behind us. We were startled. It was dark, but the starlight allowed us to make out a ghost. A shrouded figure with orange eyes, floating across the sky to settle on one of the rafters above us. Silent and non-threatening. We ran back up to the house shrieking about the ghost in the barn. Mum shushed us as we barrelled into the living room. Aunt Helena was asleep in her chair.

We returned day after day staying into the night waiting for our ghost to return. And he did. Always silent, orange eyes glowing in the starlight. We grew bolder over time, staying longer, later. We would set up camp in the barn, with the intention of staying all night, only to find ourselves tucked into our beds in the morning. Our routine continued for days, which stretched into weeks. Even on the bleakest of days, we would excuse ourselves from breakfast and race down to the barn. Jerry always on my tail. Our games became more elaborate over time, under my careful direction, of course. Often Jerry would be sent out to collect all manner of things from rocks, to twigs, leaves and the occasional old beetroot that hadn’t been up to muster in the Spring. I would wait in the warmth of the barn, trying desperately to spin gold from the straw.

One morning as we excused ourselves from breakfast, Uncle Mac lumbered down the stairs. He looked at Mum, and shook his head. Mum stood up from her chair and walked towards Uncle Mac, wrapping her arms around him. As we rushed to put on our boots and jackets, Mum instructed us to stay inside by the fire, because it was far too cold outside. We did as we were told, digging out an old set of playing cards. We started with games, but Jerry soon grew tired of losing to me and my rules. We built card house after card house, and then flicked cards at each other from across the room. Double points for hitting your target. It was a slow day, that day. Uncle Mac and Mum drank a lot of tea and made a lot of phone calls. It was like a thick fog had settled over the house and everyone in it, with everything moving just that little bit slower than usual.

The next morning, we were anxious to get out to the barn, having missed a day of fun and a visit from our ghost. We skipped our breakfast, instead grabbing a handful of shortbread from the kitchen table and stuffing it into our pockets. I had bigger hands and bigger pockets, but promised to share my extra biscuits with Jerry.

That night we waited. Waited for our ghost to arrive. We fell asleep as we waited, and once again woke up in our beds.

The next day was the same, and the next. And the day after that, we packed up our things and went home.

We never went back to Aunt Helena’s house. Jerry and I talked about our ghost for weeks, trying desperately to keep that memory alive. Jerry forgot sooner than I did, but I did forget, after time, as other experiences became memories and pushed the earlier ones out.

I received a call a few days ago, from Jerry. We have since grown up and apart, living across the country from each other, visiting only for the usual weddings and funerals. He and his wife have had a little boy. They named him Pollo. I thought it was an unusual name, until he told me it means “owl.”