2000 School Magazine

e"glish

A REUNION

WHITE Is GOODNESS COMPLETE

Each morning, I awake to orange tinted sunlight. I don't remember my grandfather; he died when I was three. Others do, though. Other teachers, acquaintances, do. Some know, knew him intimately. This I discovered when researching various family history assignments at school. My English teacher gave me a long spiel about him. About his wit, his kindness. That was at the end of class, and I certainly didn't linger. I have several photos of my grandfather. On the mantle of furniture now in our house (once in his) a photo sits. Framed in gold I sit (at age three) leaning against him - hair blonder than it is now, eyes bluer. He is laughing. I know now what my grandfather looks like when he laughs. I know now. There's a clown in that photo, red and blue - Poppa's gift to me. The clown was never named, and today he sits in my closet. I look excited, but then I look like a three year old. My grandfather, for an instant in time is sparkling. Later, I reviewed tapes - research. Just audio ones because it was the 80s. He is talking, he is saying things. My grandfather is existing, was existing, people were hearing these things. I am young when it was recorded - still a baby. I am crying, my grandfather stops. On the tape, as I rewind and play my grandfather comforts me. The infant ceases crying. He is some thirteen years gone now. This year on the anniversary of his death, we did not visit his grave, did not take flowers to the site, did not speak to quiet soil, and grass and sky. Each, in their own way, remembered him. My mother was somewhat silent that day. In the boarding house hangs a photo of him - another one' Every Thursday as I go to House meeting, I see him. This is his reality to me, his sole existence that I have known. Every Thursday as I climb the stairs to the meeting, he is there smiling when it is over. The stained glass window at the exit is his face in glass. His face in glass surrounded by a ring of gaudy orange. The light shines on my face tinged orange as I walk to History. He is some thirteen years gone. I have photos, I have tapes, I have history. But when I found them, I did not recognise his face, did not recall his voice, did not know his story. Others knew him, I don't. Others met him, talked to him, loved him. I can only imagine, as I attempt to combin these shattered fragments of his reality. The orange light dances off my face, and I think of smiling, think of crying. in my pocket is a long carried, well-folded paper, with well-read writing, some thirteen years old. "Dear Caity:it reads. "I love you, Poppa. "

White is the colour of light. Cotton is the colour of white it is what our school socks ar It is the colour of the car. it is the colour of my skin Maybe even a fish's fin. White is clean and sweet White is goodness complete

Louiso young 12Lilley

Coinin 6055 I I Hirschfold

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