After the Family Visit

Her son gives her a last firm, fierce hug before getting in the car.  She goes up the steps and waves them goodbye from her front door — just as her mother, and before that her grandmother, always did.

They drive away. She goes inside, collects the bundled sheets and towels they used, drops them in the washing machine and turns it on. Then she remakes the beds.

It’s a nice hot, breezy drying day.  She hangs the linen on the line.  She’ll bring it all in dry in a couple of hours.

Time now to catch up with emails and facebook, before getting dinner for herself and her cat and settling in for the evening’s telly.

At 10.30, yawning, she looks at her watch and says out loud. ‘I thought it must be after midnight. How the night’s dragging on!’

Prompt: Writing as someone else? Well, separating myself into the person who acts and the observer who writes will hafta do.

Missing Person

Writing as a fictional detective

The inside of the glass is still wet. Only a few moments ago someone was drinking from it. The crossword has been started. A small red pen is lying beside it with the top off. There is a crumpled tissue further along the table. The electric fan is going full pelt.

Downpour

the window
rain running down

just a few inches
visible grass

For 'Finding Your Way Home' written as another me — recalling observations of my child self.

For dVerse, a tenWord poem, sourced from a longer piece I once wrote about childhood experiences.

Small Gecko in the House

They see me

though I try to hide.

The darkness

cascades to fill up

small spaces

under chairs, couches,

desks and beds,

and edges of walls:

the skirtings

where I elongate,

trying to

press my thin body

into a crack

and never be seen.

But I am

seen by the young child

and the cat

so I am afraid.

There's danger.

I want to get out

of this house.

Oh come with your broom,

old woman,
help me back outside!

Reflections on the Tweed

The river is high today.

Lash the logs firmly

for the trip downstream.

She stands on the wharf

wearing a long white dress.

I know she is watching me.

When the new bridge

replaces my ferry,

will I see her again?

Each day she travels

back and forth
yet I do not speak.

The bridge over the Tweed at Murwillumbah was built in 1901. The photo shows the stretch once crossed by ferry.

My Late Mother Drops in for a Visit

Another exercise in writing as someone else. These are what I imagine her thoughts would be if she could come to visit.

So much clutter. She's still got her Christmas cards up. Those couches are nice. The cushions don't match. I remember that table. What a beautiful picture. Oh, that's the one from the cover of Andrew's book. It's quite a spacious unit, really, nice for Housing Department. At least she's comfortable. I like the open plan but I wonder why she has to have her office in the living room. It's not what I'd like for myself, but it seems to suit her. I wouldn't like to have to go up and down those front steps too often. But I'm glad she's got those good rails in the bathroom, to hang on to; I feel more secure. I wish she'd get rid of those big fake flowers. She says they have sentimental value. I think they look silly. I wish she'd at least put them in another room. She looks well, I will say that.

At the Environment Centre

Written as Helena, volunteer. (We are asked to write as someone else, real or fictional. )

I was standing by the counter, sorting some bits and pieces. Stan was sitting behind it, ready to take people's money. But there were only the two of us in there. It was nearly 4 o'clock.

This woman came in. She had white hair and a bright pink T-shirt, and she was wearing lots of rings and pendants.

She picked up one of the long rolls of shiny paper in the big basket next to the counter.

'A moon calendar,' I said.

'Of course,' she replied, with a grin. '$7.50. It's been the same price for years.'

'I didn't know that,' I said. 'We just volunteer here sometimes.'

And that was the start of it. Somehow I found myself telling her all about us and our interests and worries. She really listened.

I found out she had a bit of a walk back to her car. I wrapped her calendar in two plastic bags (recycled) with a rubber band around them, in case it rained.

I told her we were moving house, and what a job it was to pack all our books. She told us she couldn't help herself when it came to buying books, despite having embraced e-books, because the second-hand shops kept offering treasures for next to nothing. Her home was overflowing with books, she said.

She showed me the one she was carrying.

'I wasn't going to get anything today, but I was passing the Salvos and there was this gem for a dollar. What can you do?'

'We've got some second-hand books here for a dollar each,' I said. She hesitated, then went to have a look. She picked one up, flicked through the pages, and tucked it under her arm. 'Damn!' she said to herself.

She picked up another, turned it over, opened it and read a bit, and hung on to that one too. 'Damn!' she said softly again. Then she came over to the counter and bought them both.

I found another plastic bag for them and the one she already had.

When she left, she was smiling.