Apostle

She stood on the weathered deck of this house she once loved, where she felt loved, imagining herself younger, wilder. Dancing through the bull dust, down over swatches of grass. The sting on her skin from rolling into the bindi bur that filled in more land than lawn. Lazy days on this deck, giggling at the Apostle birds chatter and play. Images and sounds, the smells, all shifting in the hot winds, contorting into unreliable memories.

Every memory of this place feels surreal, it felt like home, once, but not today. The home and the life Lil had here is gone, taken by time.The dusted lawn remains, The essence of a fuller life jewelled with dew rinsed weeds,

“Bindi flowers.”

Wrapping her hands a little tighter around her takeaway cup, the coffee already managing to match the heat of the day. Tobacco smoke fills her space as Lil attempts to suppress on each draw. Watching the ‘Lousy Jacks’ play as they did all those years ago, how time seams absent to them, how disconnected she now felt.

After one last long drag then downing the last of her cold coffee, Lil decided it was time. She was bigger now, inevitably, but the house is stilted high enough that she could still manage the crawl. The years had past so rapidly yet the pain remains still, it was maddening at times. Lil had long been accustomed to death, saying farewell to many of her most treasured. Choosing to suppress her emotion, allowing it to manifest, control.

Following her past, Lil found herself staring into a forest. The forest is dim, the forest is hollow, the imagination of a child is dangerous. Ghosts giggle within empty spaces. Her chest tightens, haunted by the past life she once lived under here, Ignore and suppress, thats what Lil dose best. Pushing on finding with a cough that filled Lil with more grit than she exhaled, stump number 23. Etched by mature hand, a single arrow pointing her to what she seeks. Covered in the fading light, heat already beginning to ease, holding what is to be learnt and perhaps a few spiders.

#

Light now faded, Lil turns to back, back to face the past,

“ There is nothing here anymore, I have now, all that remained”

The Apostles birds erupt, chatters more piercing than ever as they lift in a clouded flurry. A transcendence of weight carried far off into the distances. Lil waited, the chatter now faded beyond her range, silence. The house seaming to sigh a little as she turned and left.

#

The car was silent except for the droning of the wheels. Lil enjoyed having silence as her passenger, there had been few moments like this since becoming a mother, however with such chaos in mind,

“where are the distractions when you need them?”

Unable to divert her attention away from the obvious. Unaware of what lay inside this monotonous yet hypnotic little box. Unsure if she wants to keep digging into old wounds.

The humming kept strong, the hum of tyres singing the most tedious song, white noise. Tar scalped back to gravel, gravel to black soil. The rhythm finding the tyres with individual textures. Signalling the last leg of this relentless journey.

Lil can feel the silence vibrating in her chest, another shade of white noise. There was a sudden surge of nausea, she kept her eyes fixed on the goat track ahead. Dropping the window for some fresh air, she lights another cigarette.

#

This house is not a home but a house none the less. This is where Lil has raised her family, where she married her husband, yet it still felt lacking. Sitting in the car, silence,

“Hello friend”

Slumping her head with the grace of a drunk onto the wheel, unfortunately sober. Head pounding, overloaded and intoxicated by stress.

“Just get it over with”

Lil turns her attention towards the box, this loudening artefact.

Before popping the latches She noticed an ever so faint inscription,

‘As Artist and Seekers, we must focus on the path forward’

If her finger had not felt the change in grain, it would of been missed.

Hands vibrating now - fast, like a plucked string, Lil hating that all this is bringing back the pain, the loss.

Inside lay a week book, black faded cover. A simple lift determined that this little black book is already withering away. Strips of dried yellow glue only securing fluff, the naked spine hanging off three dedicated threads. Lil cradled the age cursed book, opened and began to read. Calligraphy sprawled each tattered page, almost stolen by the breeze as is passes through the window. Figuring it out on the fist page, she continued to immerse herself, until it ended.

No more calligraphy. Lil lifts her attention to the moon, now obscured by the trees, still rising, she finds comfort in the moon. Watching quietly, listening, the moon was a great therapist.

As she reaches to shut the past once again, a singular drop, ink falling from nothing, appears on the blank pages. Frozen, sceptical, Lil observed the droplet behave as if being mixed on the page. Eyes fixed, as it began to spread across the paper. Swirling, gliding into each new letter with such ease. The artist in Lil was impressed, then it dawned, Lil new who owned this hand, “Grandma?”

‘Spread your wings, darling. You have better places to fly.’

In the midst of all this paranormal, Lil sensed a particular hush, closed now, Her Grandmothers journal now lay quietly decaying, the little black book, the ghost from her past, now safely returned to the box. Lil once again, seeks solace in the moon.

The sudden appearance of light invades imposing shadows. A wash of warmth fills the cold night air, Her husband, Her gravity.

Leaving the past on the passenger seat, Lil turns to face her future, Lilith goes home.