2004 School Magazine

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138

Creations:Original Works

Re-visi+14, I +, Le- P^. s+

>.. Susan Greenwood was driving to a double funeral burying her sorrows in the sweet strains of her vivaldi Four Seasons. These were songs from her youth, ones she'd played over and over as she mastered her

outdated had they wanted her to be Susan hated the stereotype and rebelled refusing to help her mother with the housework on many occasions. Yet neither was she drawn

ornaments - a doll she'd been given at age five a disintegrating collect on of feather , some shells and the remnants of a Iyrebird nest found in the bush beyond the back fence. Susan felt her cheek burn as hot tear after tear dribbled down. it was as if she'd never been here. There was nothing about this place that bore her mark, nothing she'd changed or affected. This was her parents' place. Not hers. Hers was in the city, in her apartment, on stage with her violin in her hand and a music stand in front of her. She didnt belong here. Had she ever? it was late now. Too late to drive back to the cry. The funeral had been a disaster. She had cried. Nl the way through. Her parents more than anything, had wanted her to be happy and here she was at this final I^Irewell - crying. She was not her parents' daughter Cup of steamy coffee in hand, she sat on the back verandah. Had she meant so little to this place7 The scenery was unchanged Shed in the corner of the yard, brilliant flowers around the vegie patch and bush beyond that. it was so quaint and peaceful Outdated. yes, but it felt like home. it was I^jiniliar. She watched a Iyrebird emerge cautiously from the tree line to peck at the seed her mother had left out. There was little left - her mother had been dead for almost a week now and obviously unable to top it up. Susan rose to do so herself but the bird fled. She was a foreigner here. Her home was elsewhere and her past in this place was buried with her parents and that cursed handbrake. Susan cried for a long time on that verandah. Slow silent. painfuled sobs that longed for this place to remember her The familiar sounds of vivaldi Spring played in her ears and she closed her eyes. The melody rose to the climax and caught in a stumble of notes only to regain itself and to soldier bravely on -Just as she had done as a child. A possum thumping on the roof made Susanjump, spill her coffee and swear loudly. The music stopped as the tyrebird fled again

to her I^ItherS work. Caught between a violin. Songs that seemed strangely fitting, as moral standing and lack of interest, she she drove to her childhood home to mourn retreated to her room and music. Music she could understand. Aid it called to her with her parents

Joyous plaintive tones. So she had run to it, shunning her parents' ways and her past with them at the first opportunity. Such a wonderful example of 'Be careful what you wish forI'. So she had never helped her father make the swing, rarely helped her mother in the garden. And it was all too obvious to Susan as she parked her car with a crunch of rocky gravel that there was nothing left of her here. The garden? Her mothers. The shed? Her fathers. The swing? Made for her but not a part of her. The house? Her parents' through and through. ignoring the mist building behind her glasses, Susan knocked a tattoo on the door Her glasses turned white/grey with steam. As a little girl, she'd tapped that rhythm to let Mummy and Daddy know it was her There was no answer Susan fumbled in her handbag for the keys and a hanky. Finding keys, but no hanicy, she unlocked the door with shaky hands and discreetly wiped her glasses on a corner of her crisp, white blouse. Why discreetly? Susan clocked that one up to force of habit. She'd been a performer for years, A professional musician and required to act as such Susan replaced her glasses, then slid them higher with her index finger Her heels clicked as she walked down the tiny hall, refusing to look into her parents' bedroom as she passed it. Instead, she went to her own room and found nothing. It was a child^ room alright but it could have belonged to any child. Her books - all musical - were gone, moved to the cupboard/bookshelf in her city apartment. The bed had no sheets on it Iwell, of course not, she hadnt been there for months. much less slept oven. The drawers were empty, as was the wardrobe, save for a few tiny articles made for a three year old; on the desk were a few

There was something blackly humorous that her father would have laughed at about the funeral people, deeply in love and always together. Her parents had been such down- toearth practical people, deeply in love and always together. Now they would be buried together which again was fitting, but for much more mundane reasons than love The coroner had advised Susan vehemently against an open casket af!air - the pair had been killed in a hornfic car crash, their car compacted between colliding freight trucks on the highway. It would have been quick and painless and at least they're together now, Susan snorted. Very much together - no one had been able to separate the bodies from the single mass of flesh and bones they'd become on impact. The handbrake was somewhere in there too, she'd been told. Susan had turned away. 'Daddy loved that car', she said simply. What else could she say7 She was nojoker like herit;ither to make some witty remark. Susan was not a funny person. Dreamer. Yes. Spirited. Yes Funny? No vivaldi came to a close, moved on to the next track, but Susan poked it back to the beginning. The Four Seasons were her favourite - had been since she'd heard them at age six. She'd listened to and played them whenever she could and they reminded her of youth. Her parents had encouraged her; happy to see their daughter happy but urged her to get a realjob as well. violin was a wonderful hobby, but it wouldnt feed a I^jinily. Susan sighed and cranked up the volume. Her parents may have been practical but they were unbearably old- fashioned in some ways. Susan had been glad to abandon their gender stereotyping - her father was the workec the repairs man, the breadwinner while her mother was cook, cleaner and gardener. How

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