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I can still smell the tropics... thick, sweet air that stirs on the warm breeze, dancing ribbons of heady wattle that would fragrance the air and horrify the allergic ;)



Queensland.



I do miss that sun kissed state. The cicadas and kookaburra cries... rosellas and lorikeets... fruit bats and wallowing winds, stirring tropical storms and lighting gales... Dead reptiles in the swimming pool...

"Floaters!" he'd exclaim, and go hunting for the net, his blue thongs slapping the cement and his shirt, soon stained with sweat would cling to his chest and arms, bronzed by the mid-summer sun.



Sometimes we would dance, mother and I. We'd leap up and down the hallway, tango style, to a rousing chorus of "We're happy little vegemites". Those were the days when he would make jams and breads, pickles and cakes. I'd often wake at odd hours, stagger half blinded down the hall and into the kitchen. He'd seat me at the little wooden table he'd crafted so carefully and feed me fresh pastries and milo before kissing my brow and wrapping me in feather down. I'd smile as he tucked the soft warmth in tight around my form.



On weekends, we'd play chess, or roulette, or he'd teach me strategy or mind control. Sometimes we would speak of the war or of my grandparents.



I may have viewed all of this with the naivity of a child. I may have been blinded by youth, yet we loved so much in those years, the three of us.



And now we can love again.

At twilight, nature is not without loveliness, though perhaps its chief use is to illustrate quotations from the poets.

-Oscar Wilde

COMMENTS

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Dragonrouge
13:18 Aug 07 2009

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.



O.W.

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Bloodmother
03:02 Aug 08 2009

He also said something about how we each kill what we love.



Usually adore Wilde, but my appreciation of twilight is more immediate and physical and does not require words.

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