day92 - sun bleached playground
dear luci,
Tonight on my drive home I was struck by the dazzling light of memory, shadow puppets created under the glow of sodium vapour street lamps. I remember the house that my grandparents used to own in my hometown. I remember the name of the street and the park that was only a short walk away. In retrospect, it was a shabby little thing overtaken by graffiti. The play equipment bore the brunt of the harsh 40° heat, growing more bleached and cracked by the year.
I think of the front yard which was so meticulously maintained by my grandparents, who took so much pride and enjoyment in their flowers, their trees, their bushes. I think of how every Christmas I would help them string fairy lights in those same trees and affix them to the outside of the house as it faced the street.
The design of that house was so spectacularly '70s. The carpet was plush and worn down from decades of regular use. The living room had a raked ceiling exposed wooden beams, and a fireplace which we used regularly in winter. I remember the evenings there most fondly, although I spent many days there as well. My mum used to pack us into the car, take us through drive-through, and drive to my grandparents house to eat. She did that when my dad was away, which was very often, because she felt lonely and wanted to see her parents.
My nana is a very tidy woman. Almost the stereotype of the good housewife. She is particular, and doting, and has a tendency to ramble. if there is a point to a sentence she will take her sweet time to get to it.
My pop is a kind-hearted smile of a man with a deep, infectious laugh, and hands that are well acquainted with manual labour. But despite that, despite growing up in a family primarily of boys, he has never ascribed to the stiff upper lip of traditional masculinity. His loves music. his father was an Opera singer. not professionally, but that was his real passion, and he passed his love and reverence for music onto his son. My pop is the one who got me into jazz as a 6-year-old. I don't really remember that in any tangible way, aside from the fact that I had the most curious urge to learn to play trumpet— something I never really followed through on despite my insistence. I remember one time when I was teenager I had been playing ukulele and decided to “perform” one of his favourite songs of that year, which funnily enough, Feel It Still by Portugal. the Man.
I cannot describe how happy he was to hear me play music for him. He himself never picked up an instrument, despite dabbling with bongos. He grew up in a time and a place where creativity was all well and good— but at the end of the day, you needed to feed your family. And in rural Australia, it's not likely you'd have been able to do that as an artist.
I love that house and all the memories within it. It hasn't belonged to them for many years, it has been emptied and inhabited by new, unfamiliar people. But it still exists just the way it used to. So vividly. In my memory.
Sweet dreams Luci <3