July 23. Mirror

July 22. Upside down

July 21. 9 O'clock

July 20. Eyes

Her eyes looked toward the building in front of them, but somehow through it. She was not speaking and her daughter did not insist upon it, preferring to remain in her own reverie. As she stared at the bricks and mortar, images flickered up as though in an old projector. Her Mum sitting at her formica table, hand touching her forehead, her eyes and mouth held closed. Her Dad running the length of the backyard, straw broom held high, shooing away the crows. Her daughter holding a cloth covered in blood. Her husband lying turned away from her. The images flowed through her, drawing waves of emotion that fell away before she could even feel them.

19. Animal/insect/pet

The dog lay beside her on the lounge, just as he always did. He was her truest friend, standing by her without judgement, encouragement or compassion. He accepted her life just as he accepted his.

July 18. Plate

Too much on my plate. A glass half empty. A glass half full. A full house. A house of cards. Card! I need to buy a card. A card for my daughter. My beautiful, beautiful daughter. Never visits, never calls. I should call her. Where's the phone? 
"Vicki? It's Mum."
"Hi, Mum, how are you?"
"Wonderful, darling. I've been cleaning the house and I've just put the music on and am having a bit of a dance. I was thinking about you and thought I'd call. Do you like to dance?"
"Ah...sometimes Mum. Are you okay?"
"Never better, as good as it gets. I feel fantastic. Better than I've ever been."
"Have you been taking your medication?"
"Haven't you been listening? I'm feeling great, Vicki. Great. I don't need it any more."
"Oh, Mum, I think you need to still take your medication. You should probably see your doctor."
"Can't you just be happy for me? Why do you have to be so negative all the time? I just rang because I wanted to speak to you and see how you were going. Can't I even do that anymore?"
"Of course you can, Mum. We're all fine. Just busy, you know how it is. Jimmy got school captain yesterday."
"You're always so busy. You should just relax. Relax, relax, relax." I know a song, "Take it eeeeeeasy, take it eeeeeasy, don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you craaaaaazy..."
"Mum, I have to go."
"Oh, do you?"
"But I'll see you on Saturday as usual?"
"Alright, then." Always visiting, always cleaning. Won't need to this time. I've done some spring cleaning. Spring! Spring in my step. A step back in time. Time for tea. Hmmm, tea. I might make a cuppa. She walks into her bedroom and starts pulling out clothes from the wardrobe.

July 17. Your addiction

Jelly snakes wound together in a colourful weave. Frogs piggy-backing in a scarlet tumble. Plump marshmallows, as soft as clouds, wearing velvet coats. Fruit jubes huddling together, sugary crusts scratching together. The sweet, sweet substance of addiction. Should a Jelly Baby approach the front door, seeking solace (or perhaps looking for its parents), it wouldn't be long before its knees started to shake and its bottom lip wobble. Decapitation would soon occur, followed by amputation, then grinding into its syrupy demise.

July 16. Sign

The sign resting against a bowl of sweets at the reception desk said "help yourself". She glanced at it as she handed over her credit card, smiling politely to the girl behind the counter. Then she looked at it again. Help yourself. The words moved around in her head, stretching apart then snapping back together.

July 15. Finger

As she waits at the traffic lights, her wedding ring shines in the sun and catches her eye. Precious metal bound around her finger, similar to that in her ears and around her neck in appearance but completely different in life. Her earrings never caused her heart to soar or to sink. Her necklace never felt like a warm hug or a line she couldn't cross. In a time when a year felt significant and opportunities were frequent, her finger felt bare, her heart was open and the promise was so easy to give. Many years later, time had shown her how hard it was to keep.

July 14. Building

July 13. Open

July 15. Finger

July 12. Texture

July 11. Letter

Dear Ellie,

You are nearly 8 months old. You have just started clapping and waving. Today you learned to blow a kiss and have been practicing all afternoon. Your cheeks are like two apricots glued to each side of your face and are just so delicious. Your smile makes my heart soar higher than the sky. Tonight you had lots of bubbles in your bath and you decided to eat some. The result? A little white beard on your beautiful face. We laughed so much! You have such a personality - you want to be in amongst it and see what's going on and you don't miss anything. I love that about you - it reminds me of your Dad.

Ellie, I want you to know that I love you, unconditionally. I promise to be your Mum. I will sometimes have to be tough when that's what you need. I will look after you and provide you with a safe place to call home - whether you are three or thirty-three. I WILL be stronger. I WILL be wiser. I WILL be braver. And I will always, always be kind. That's my promise to you.

I'm so lucky to have you in my life and love watching you grow. Can't wait for tomorrow!

Love,
Mum xx

July 9. Big

She was small when she was born - just on three kilos and barely the length of my arm - yet her impact sent my world spinning on a different axis. Even when she was six months, when someone would ask me what had been happening, I felt like yelling, "I HAD A BABY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL YOU I HAD A BABY AND IT'S REALLY HARD." Except I didn't, because I couldn't and I'll tell you why - everyone has babies and it's NO BIG DEAL. Bogans have babies, teenagers have babies, even scrub turkeys have babies. And the human (and scrub turkey) species continues - they don't kill them, they don't kill themselves and most of the time they don't even kill their husbands. They just do it, without thinking, without questioning. Me, I'm much more of a questioner. I like to poke and prod until it hurts regardless of whether it hurt to begin with. Mainly: is she ok? Sometimes: am I ok? Occasionally: are we ok? The only other life-changing event that I can relate it to is falling in love - it's scary, it hurts, it's all-consuming. So why do we do it? The only answer that I can come up with is this: we do it because it's these small-big things that make our small lives BIG.

July 8. Lunch

His lunch was always the same: two slices of bakery wholemeal bread with shaved ham and sweet mustard  pickle pressed between, cut in half horizontally - two rectangular prisms of surety. Morning tea was where his fence was made of wire rather than the usual concrete blocks that made up most of its construct. Sometimes it was a muesli bar (if it was, always apricot), sometimes it was a little packet of savoury biscuits (always Barbecue flavoured), on a rare occasion it was a mini chocolate bar (always Mars).

July 6. Chair

If you're going to sit down - for comfort, not duty - then the best chair to choose is the one by the fire. In our possession through slightly ill-gotten means, (i.e. left behind and never returned), it's shabby appearance may initially deter a would-be sitter. Those that were able to look past the asthetics, however, found that in it's wooden arms you would be as content as in those of a lover's. It's long base allowed for legs to be curled, up or under, and it's recline inclined you to snooze on occasion, particularly when a sip was taken during a sit.

July 7. Garden

Every Sunday since she could remember she'd spent in that garden, except for the days it was raining. They were spent lying on her Pop's bed, his scratchy wool blanket pulled up over her legs watching Elvis movies. Sunny days however were hers to explore. In the far left corner, was a big old gum. Sometimes, her Pop would wave an old broom, one with the long straw (perfect for flying), at that tree and yell at the crows to go away. She would run along behind, joining in, playing the game. In front of it, closer to the house, was a rectangular garden bed, edged in stone and concrete and it's twin to the right. They had borders of marigolds and daisy-filled centres. Flowers perfect for picking - to pluck the petals to find out if 'he' loved her (whichever boy had mildly captured her interest that week - she knew that liking boys was something that girls did), to give to her Nan or to put in her hair. Between the garden beds and the house was a large lawn that turned golden in the summer (her Pop would blame the drought but she thought it was beautiful). In the centre of the lawn was a Hills Hoist. She would hold the pegs for her Nan as she hung the clothes on the line or, if no one was watching, she would take a run up and swing around like a ride. On one memorable day, the kind of day that your shirt stuck to your back and even the dark, cemented box of under-the-house felt like an oven, her Pop had threaded the hose through the clothes line and started gently spinning it around. He said it was to water the lawn but she just knew it was for her. Without hesitating, she ran into the spray, jumping and galloping around the clothesline, the cool water rushing down as joy bubbled up. Her Pop watched wearing his terry hat and a quiet smile.

July 5. On the floor

"I like it hard," she said, "and fast." He looked surprised. "What did you expect? That I would just lie there and take what was offered? If this is going to happen then it's got to be how I want it." He didn't say anything for a moment, his gaze shifted from the fireplace to her then back again.
"Ok."
"Ok?"
"Ok, if that's how you want this to happen then ok. I was trying to create romance, lead into it, see where things took us...but I guess this is where we've been taken."
She sipped from her wine glass, her eyes reflecting the dancing light of the fire. "I guess it is."
He took her wine glass from her hand and placed it with his on the coffee table. He then offered his hand to help her up, before pushing her down to the floor. He roughly removed her clothes, then his.
"Like this?" he said.
"Maybe we could kiss?"
He kissed her then, hard, his tongue pushing deep into her throat. She struggled beneath him, unable to move away. She tried to push him off.
"What?"
"It's too much."
"I thought it's what you wanted."
"Not like that."
"Can I just do things the way I want to then?"
"Fine." He moved himself off of her and stood up. He picked up his jeans and started to pull them on.
"What are you doing?"
"What I want. I want wine, I want conversation... and maybe even one day I want love. Fucking is fucking, for fuck's sake." She looked at him then, noticing the softness around his eyes for the first time.  
"Sorry," she said.

July 4. Fun

Fun: enjoyment, amusement or light-hearted pleasure.

July 3. Best part of your day

A loud squeal fills my ears. It's a sound that I've become quite accustomed to in recent months and it's surprising that my ears can even register that pitch any more. This time it was in response to a ride invented to create fun and delight and to my surprise it seems to be working. From my view, a little head bobs up and down, plump cheeks visible from behind suggesting a smile and perhaps even a large one. Hands clutch each side of the laundry basket as though holding on for dear life. Down the hallway ("weeeeeee, weeeeeee"), around the corner (ow, my knees!), between the ugg boots and to the mirror. And there she is - my girl, my beautiful daughter - with a drippy, gummy grin engulfing her face."Who's that girl?" I sing. She bobs up and down as she responds, "Ra wa da da" and then looks at me as though to say 'Obviously, Mum'. Just wait until she can roll her eyes, I think.

July 1(belated). Self portrait

My knees crack as I stretch my legs. The tips of my ugg boots peek up over my computer screen. Paint drips and water stains on the skin brings soft memories. My mouth feels drawn and I sip from a glass of water. I hear a squeal and I know that I don't have long left to write. That will have to do for now.

July 2. Busy

Busy running here, busy running there
Too busy to take a breath but just too busy to care.
Waiting at the lights, queueing at the shops,
Hurry up, hurry up, I've got no time to stop.
Move out of the way that park is mine,
Can't you see I have no time?
Clickety-clack, clickety clack, rushing down the path,
Far too busy to see the sky or hear my daughter laugh.
A noise, so loud, then pushing and darkness starts to fill,
Why did I leave it so damn late to let my life be still?

To start: Dr Suess

Love this:

"You have brains in your head,
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself,
any direction you choose.
You're on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go."