I have opened the door and stepped into the beginnings of my old age, into the house of my youth. Surrounded by the smell of wood, not damp, musty perhaps, and the scent of my mother. Avon Unforgettable, floral, carnations with undertones of moss. The scent that witnessed me sneaking through her snap-shut, gold-latch handbag, caught me searching in the darkness of her wardrobe, searching for private things, searching for her lipstick.

Memories of my mother’s slim ankles in stiletto shoes and her auburn-bourbon-red hair lay, hidden like Easter eggs, awaiting the joy of discovery. She is here within the carved and oiled wood of the beds, the tables, chairs and the cupboards. She is in the timber ceilings and floors, even in the weatherboard exterior of the house.

My mother’s voice still lives in the small garden at the back of the house. Her words bob and rustle in the breeze — the myths, fairy tales, the nursery rhymes….

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Published December 17, 2018 Meanjin Quarterly