When all you can do is walk
I want to walk. I want to walk and walk and walk. The dog wants to stop and sniff but I am not in the mood for dawdling. I want to walk the war in my chest out of me. My feet are venting machines. They punch the ground like boxer’s gloves.
I head towards the oval and determine not to engage other dog-walkers. I fix my gaze on the path in front and hope my body language will be enough to alert would-be conversationalists to my mood. If the little man in the beret tries to bail me up with another one of his sexist jokes I might kick him in the shins.
This morning my fridge has turned up its toes. The ice-cream is the consistency of mousse and my teenagers could consume one of the frozen juice bars in one slurp and gulp. The fridge technician who I have filled in on the phone suspects it’s the compressor. I’ll be looking to outlay around the same cost as a new fridge to replace it. But check the door is sealing properly, he suggests, and wait forty-eight hours just in case.
I pass the community notice board with its rapidly rusting legs and wonder why the designers didn’t plan for dog pee. I pound over the new asphalted sections of path I’d seen council-workers making preparations for yesterday. Why didn’t they continue one more metre to where a tree root is pushing up the path? The smell of lemon-scented something encourages me to lift my gaze as, out of habit, I cast around for the source of the fragrance. I have never been able to locate the actual plant and my thoughts poke at the mystery of it. I walk past the smelly dog poo bin several meters further on. I manage to negotiate the off-lead section of the walking path, past the oval and out onto the street with minimal communication.
Three funerals in three weeks – all on a Thursday. I think of Anna, barely past thirty, with a passion for advocacy and writing; a bright mind whose struggle with mental health and addiction robbed the world of her creativity and compassion. I think of her mother and what it must be like to lose your child. My stomach knots and I blink back tears.
I walk past a black dog who barks at us from behind his bars at the side of a small red-brick house. He paces back and forth like a lion. Unnerved, my dog pulls on her lead and we continue on past the block where the old weatherboard used to be, a port-a-loo now perched prominently in its place on top of a mound of dirt. I walk and walk. Thoughts and feelings bubble up from some cavity within me I have forgotten about. I walk past the house that last week sold for a million dollars. I consider the Japanese-style front garden, the angular lines of the building, and wonder what its hidden secrets are –unseen from the street – that make it worth a million dollars.
I think about Jenelle – who died on the morning of Anna’s funeral – and how her primary school-aged children will now have to make their way in the world without her. I picture her smiling face and try to take it in. Try to make sense of the enormity of the loss for her family and friends.
I walk for an hour and as I turn the corner into the street that leads back to the oval a taxi pulls up a few houses down. As I walk past a young girl is paying the cab driver. I wonder why she has arrived in a taxi. Doesn’t she have a car? Couldn’t she get a lift? Or the bus? But it’s none of my business so I cross the road and head for home.
The creek is tranquil under the canopy of gum trees and willows and rings with the calls of rosellas and miners. A gang gang creaks in the low branches of a wattle tree up ahead and I watch a blur of grey as it flies away. My pace slows and I allow myself to stop and watch a currawong take a bath in the shallows of the creek. The air here is earthy and cool. The bird pauses and looks up at me with its yellow eyes and there is something sacrosanct about that momentary connection.
A sign I had seen yesterday, on the fence adjacent to the creek, that read Small grey dog found - enquire within has been taken down. I hope this means good news.
The funeral this Thursday is for a man in his eighties – the father of my childhood friend, Jeanette. For a couple of days I am under the impression it is Jeanette's mother who has passed away and I berate myself for not visiting her for years. I spend time thinking about her, recalling the warmth in our connection and her teaching me my first German phrase - diner ist fertig - which I can still hear her calling through a back window to gather her family to the table. Then, in a twist of fate, my father calls and tells me he has seen the funeral notice in the paper and had misheard the original phone message without his hearing aid in. It is bittersweet news. I have not seen Jeanette since we were teenagers and hope I will recognise her at the funeral.
After I walk up my driveway and into the house I hang up the dog’s lead and look in the freezer.
The ice-cream has pooled in the bottom of the container.
(The name ‘Anna’ has been substituted for reasons of privacy.)
I head towards the oval and determine not to engage other dog-walkers. I fix my gaze on the path in front and hope my body language will be enough to alert would-be conversationalists to my mood. If the little man in the beret tries to bail me up with another one of his sexist jokes I might kick him in the shins.
This morning my fridge has turned up its toes. The ice-cream is the consistency of mousse and my teenagers could consume one of the frozen juice bars in one slurp and gulp. The fridge technician who I have filled in on the phone suspects it’s the compressor. I’ll be looking to outlay around the same cost as a new fridge to replace it. But check the door is sealing properly, he suggests, and wait forty-eight hours just in case.
I pass the community notice board with its rapidly rusting legs and wonder why the designers didn’t plan for dog pee. I pound over the new asphalted sections of path I’d seen council-workers making preparations for yesterday. Why didn’t they continue one more metre to where a tree root is pushing up the path? The smell of lemon-scented something encourages me to lift my gaze as, out of habit, I cast around for the source of the fragrance. I have never been able to locate the actual plant and my thoughts poke at the mystery of it. I walk past the smelly dog poo bin several meters further on. I manage to negotiate the off-lead section of the walking path, past the oval and out onto the street with minimal communication.
Three funerals in three weeks – all on a Thursday. I think of Anna, barely past thirty, with a passion for advocacy and writing; a bright mind whose struggle with mental health and addiction robbed the world of her creativity and compassion. I think of her mother and what it must be like to lose your child. My stomach knots and I blink back tears.
I walk past a black dog who barks at us from behind his bars at the side of a small red-brick house. He paces back and forth like a lion. Unnerved, my dog pulls on her lead and we continue on past the block where the old weatherboard used to be, a port-a-loo now perched prominently in its place on top of a mound of dirt. I walk and walk. Thoughts and feelings bubble up from some cavity within me I have forgotten about. I walk past the house that last week sold for a million dollars. I consider the Japanese-style front garden, the angular lines of the building, and wonder what its hidden secrets are –unseen from the street – that make it worth a million dollars.
I think about Jenelle – who died on the morning of Anna’s funeral – and how her primary school-aged children will now have to make their way in the world without her. I picture her smiling face and try to take it in. Try to make sense of the enormity of the loss for her family and friends.
I walk for an hour and as I turn the corner into the street that leads back to the oval a taxi pulls up a few houses down. As I walk past a young girl is paying the cab driver. I wonder why she has arrived in a taxi. Doesn’t she have a car? Couldn’t she get a lift? Or the bus? But it’s none of my business so I cross the road and head for home.
The creek is tranquil under the canopy of gum trees and willows and rings with the calls of rosellas and miners. A gang gang creaks in the low branches of a wattle tree up ahead and I watch a blur of grey as it flies away. My pace slows and I allow myself to stop and watch a currawong take a bath in the shallows of the creek. The air here is earthy and cool. The bird pauses and looks up at me with its yellow eyes and there is something sacrosanct about that momentary connection.
A sign I had seen yesterday, on the fence adjacent to the creek, that read Small grey dog found - enquire within has been taken down. I hope this means good news.
The funeral this Thursday is for a man in his eighties – the father of my childhood friend, Jeanette. For a couple of days I am under the impression it is Jeanette's mother who has passed away and I berate myself for not visiting her for years. I spend time thinking about her, recalling the warmth in our connection and her teaching me my first German phrase - diner ist fertig - which I can still hear her calling through a back window to gather her family to the table. Then, in a twist of fate, my father calls and tells me he has seen the funeral notice in the paper and had misheard the original phone message without his hearing aid in. It is bittersweet news. I have not seen Jeanette since we were teenagers and hope I will recognise her at the funeral.
After I walk up my driveway and into the house I hang up the dog’s lead and look in the freezer.
The ice-cream has pooled in the bottom of the container.
(The name ‘Anna’ has been substituted for reasons of privacy.)
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