Mum – Part 6

It’s Tuesday. I’ve lost a whole day. Yesterday I woke to a black screen on my phone.

Yesterday was spent organising my dead Blackberry to be resuscitated by Telstra. They have actually replaced it *bless, and when we removed the old sim card, it spluttered back to life!

So now I have TWO Blackberries. *sighs. I’ll have to sort that out today.

Yesterday my sisters asked if I could vacuum the floor, so I waved them off to the hospital as only Cinderalla can, and vacuumed mum’s 90th birthday bling from the carpet.

90. Woosh. There goes a purple one. Wosh! There goes a gold one. 90.

Gradually little memories are removed from the floor.

Yesterday I met my sisters - who seem to talk around me, and over me – for morning tea. Agreeing to meet at the ‘Chocolate Shop’ I drive and park, only to read that what I thought was the right café is actually called Sexy Coffee. I hate coffee, but I love chocolate, so then I drive to Carolyn’s work to ask if I can ring her on her mobile.

Long story short, I found the girls, who didn’t miss me at all. *sighs, lol. They sit a cough’s distance away.

***

We wander the house, patting down our pockets. “Have you seen my phone? Are these my glasses? Where did I put my camera?”
We wander like sheep in a paddock, out of routine with life and habits.

***

A sign hangs limply from a building advertising “Opera in the Caves”. It would be beautiful to be there, to hear pure voices sing in God’s Cathedral.

***

A semi laden with cattle turns a hard right for the long drive to the meatworks. A line of manure spills from the truck in a graceful but smelly curve. Even with the windows up I can smell the shit.

Rockhampton is a beef city.

Large cows (cattle?) bullocks or whatever meet visitors at each end of the town. I like the concept.

Eat more meat ya bastards! crowed the old car stickers. You probably can’t say that now, in this politically correct world we live in. We exist in. This silly world where little girls prance in permanent party dresses of pink and fairy tulle. What on earth do they then wear to actual parties?

***

A group of young aboriginals cross the road in front of my car. They each hold a small plastic coke bottle and inside it the liquid isn’t the colour of Coke. They look at me with dead eyes. I stare back.

***

The Fitzroy - the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees of my old hometown - twinkles in the autumn sunshine.

Clouds hang above like gun fire.

I drive in silence, the car radio has died. It gives me time to think, and I can’t sing anyway with my scratchy voice. Later, I ring Father Cameron, all 6 foot 6 inches of him, to ask if mum can be put on the Prayer List. This morning he responds to my message, and also adds me to the list.

Marvellous! And all you have to do to be on it, is to be sick!

***

My sister asks if we should throw away the chocolate mud cake I bought for us to share on Mother’s Day. It has only one small slice taken from it. It sits pristine. No, I say, it will last for ages. She starts shouting at me, again.

BUT I DON'T EAT MUDCAKE!

I do.
So far she has lectured, roused on, bossed, and now she shouts.

I am her Elephant’s Child. We have forgotten how to speak to each other.

I might go home early. I’m dead weight here.

***

To be continued...