The Contingency Plan

Twelve days to go...

And yes, I've been a bad procrastinator and need to renew our passports, buy gifts, prepare the house and start packing. With so much to do I might as well blog.

Luc picked up our tickets this morning and they're casually sitting on our dining table. The trip still seems surreal.

Spring has arrived and the warmer weather has made me happy. I hope this season will bring some much-needed freshness to my life. No more resting, it's time to get moving.

Last night I realised I no longer hold any bitterness towards Sophie. It only took a year and a half. And in this time I've opened up and relationships with Luc, Chloe, Kris, Drew, Amelia, my brother and sister have deepened. I no longer feel the urge to cause Sophie harm.

I'm now lying in our lovely spare room and Hugo is sleeping next to me. The space is large and holds little furniture. Luc's Martin guitar rests against a clean, white fireplace and three big old-fashioned windows are open, allowing the late afternoon light to flood in and bounce off shiny floorboards around the bed. The smell of my favourite plant is sneaking in. I don't know its name, only that it sat outside the bedroom window of my childhood home.

One hundred and fifty nine. That was the number of our place. It was a large home with big windows for eyes. It had enormous rooms and tall ceilings. We never closed the curtains and were consistently surrounded by light and air.

Throughout the warmer months I could always be found in the garden. It was so large that it had sections in my mind. There was the plain, boring part close to the house and washing line (the metal wind-up-and-down kind that mum never let us ride), just beyond that a soft patch of clover and small yellow flowers; right up the back was a scary metal shed full of junk and redback spiders; which held hands with the hard, wild grass that was hardly seen or maintained.

And then there was my favourite tree, the jacaranda. It sat solidly amongst the clover. For years I kept a ladder propped against its trunk so I could climb its branches and once there, write, draw, sing and reflect. I loved its purple flowers that would drop to create a flowery floor and its long stalks with thick ends that I used as microphones. I felt hidden, protected and calm in its branches. Back in those days we had other trees including a persimon and apricot tree but Dad cut them down because the fruit would always rot in the summer attracting swarms of bothersome insects.

Although my favourite teenage memories are wrapped around others, my cherished childhood thoughts involve time alone when I would be quiet, read, write, play the piano and spend time with nature. I would casually talk to the big presence I knew of as God and when I felt adventurous, brave the shed and search for memories Dad would leave there hidden - dusty old cards, photo albums, records and books. I would take them back down to the house only to be repremanded. These objects would then go back into hiding, but this time in my room.

My family lived in one hundred and fifty nine for over thirty years. Harry, Natasha and I all grew up in that home. I remember how Mum would hand wash clothes and scale fish in the backyard during the summer. How she would bath Harry in the kitchen sink when he was a baby. I remember Harry and I carefully laying Tash in a cardboard box when she was tiny and pulling it around the house using a jumprope. I remember that having my hair washed with conditioner was a special event and boasting to Dad and Uncle Greg next door aftewards. I remember the whole family lying on the cold pink and grey tiles when the heat became too intense. I remember meeting Penelope half way between our homes when she fought with her parents and helping her carry her things to our place, and how we did this for nearly ten years. Then there was the time Harry and I played handball in the lounge room and broke one of the vintage crystal chandelliers. And oh do I remember the fear.

I moved out home when I was 21 and at at times still miss living there. It was a hub of people, noise and activity with friends always dropping by. There was always someone to talk to or a place to hide in. We never locked our doors or the cars and I never needed to schedule time with loved ones, they just came over.

Four years ago Dad sold 159 with Council approval to re-develop the land, an act that infuriates Mum to this day. Our house got torn down and I haven't had the courage to ask if the jacaranda went with it. In its place now sits four modern beige coloured duplexes. They don't have any eyes.

And oh this used to make me so sad! But it doesn't as much now we have Hugo. He's up and crawling around the bed, stopping to bounce, look out the window and chat. Now and then he crawls over, buries his face in my chest, stretches out an arm and slaps my chest, little fingers wriggling to lie under my chin. And I think how I can I be upset when I can add a new generation of memories to my existing ones?

I bet Hugo will remember the current house with the same fondness that you remember 159.