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...And he would wake, his memories of past summer days, liquid dreams still tethered to the solid darkness of sleep. The light would ease him from the dreary depths, towards the pervasive cloud of humid thought. Crashing through the surface to breath morning, as the barriers were swept away by the flood of reality.
When they lived in Manly his mother would rush in each morning to wake him. She would pull apart the curtains so he could see the sea, so they could say hello to the world. ‘Good Morning World.’
Today through his window, the boy saw the garden. The wide expanse of green lawn patched with withered weeds, mottle brown leaves scattered beneath the shady gum. Further down, pods from the Jacaranda tree, some sprouting purple flowers, most already black, lying starved below the brilliant canopy of greens and purple-blues. For a while he just stared, the greens and purples and blues blured and merged, he an itch and the swelling of salt water, a tear rolled down his cheek, . He blinked and the colours jumped apart, he blinked again and the tree came into focus. He continued to blink, faster and faster, more blinks than he could ever hope to count. He wiped the tears from his face and sat staring at the lawn. The boy thought, ‘If I stare at the tree it changes, I blink and it comes back. How do I do that?’ He didn’t know and this worried him. ‘What would his mother would say if next time, he couldn’t change their Jacaranda tree back?’
He heaved hard, pulling himself onto the kitchen stool. He stared at his weetbix, they changed and he blinked hurriedly to change them back. He couldn’t pour milk so he sat patiently, waiting for his mother or father, or both. It seemed only seconds before his father appeared beside him, and he was locked in a bear hug, smothered by the blue dressing gown. “How long have you been up earlybird?” The boy didn’t know, he couldn’t read the clock very well. He had learnt when it was midday and even when it was 12 o’clock, but the present time eluded him. He didn’t answer, instead he stared at his father, watching as he began to change till there was only a blue blur. “‘Don’t!”’ His concentration was shattered, the blur had spoken! ‘How?’ he wondered, ‘it had no mouth!’ Then the blur jumped and broke up, it was a while before his father stood whole again. “Don’t stare, it’s rude!”
In silence, the boy returned to his weetbix. Every so often he would glance over his shoulder to check on his father, and his eyes would wander out to the garden, where the Jacaranda tree stood, its canopy as clear as ever, greens and purple-blues gleaming in the morning light.
« return.