Today I went to a creative writing morning at the local writer’s centre that I discovered two weeks ago. For two hours, they ran us through various exercises designed to ‘free our thinking’ and help us get around any blocks. I don’t tend to have trouble writing, but I wanted to spend more time around other writers now that I’ve gotten used to referring to myself as one, and become familiar with the jargon. We wrote based on a prompt for seven minutes; then, we wrote a list of 24 things that we either dreamed, remembered or forgot. Finally, we were asked to choose 6-8 words that stood out to us in any of the books sitting on a side table and then write for 30 minutes about those words. Below is my attempt at creating a story or personal observation from the significant words I selected (die, youthful, time, place, rows, future and rural).
My nephew lies under spreading gum trees. It’s his birthday today – his 21st. His mum and stepdad will visit later today with flowers and a 21st key. The key is a right of passage gifted to many who are celebrating their coming of age. My sister Lynette couldn’t find any in the handful of shops in her tiny rural home, so a colleague from the geriatric ward where they are both employed went home to her turn of the century (the 20th century, not this current one) house and came back with a vintage key for my sister to use. Lynette protested because it meant the friend would be short one key to her door, but she was assured it wasn’t hard to get another one cut. Lyn texted me a photo of the key, and it is indeed a beauty – gold-toned, shiny and very retro looking. It looks perfect amongst the blue and black roses my sister selected, with the diamanté cake toppers that she found as two separate numbers and put together to form a 21. You have to be creative when you live hours from anywhere and not be too fussed if things don’t exactly match.
I’m not sure what time they’re delivering them. I had to fight with myself not to join them, but ultimately some things belong to the parents. I’m sure if they wanted it to be an extended family event, they would have asked us to go down to them.
Lynette knows the way to her son’s place by heart. He’s straight down the middle road, in the row on the right, one plot up from the big gum tree at the end. He is not turning 21 today, even though March 4th will always be the day he was born. He does not get to talk about his future and his plans with his friends and family. He couldn’t talk, even when he was alive, but that doesn’t mean my sister didn’t have dreams for him.
Now her dreams and plans are limited to what to put on his grave and how to pass on his medical equipment. She still finds it hard that young people die and their belongings outlast them. He was 19 when he passed almost two years ago. I’ve sent a birthday present anyway, more to acknowledge that he was here and that I haven’t forgotten him despite my ever-increasing busyness in raising my own two sons. They’re allowed to get older, my boys, but Owen will always only be 19.
The vase containing the blue and black fabric flowers, the shiny key, and the sparking 21 will be placed on the mound of sand that tops his site. Lynette keeps it filled with flowers, ornaments and those colourful plastic spinning ‘windmill’ things that I find in dollar stores for her. She cared for Owen 24 hours a day when he was alive, so not continually tending to him now would be out of character for her.
I’m sure they’ll send me a photo when the laying has been done. I will tell them it looks great, and that Owen would have liked it, even though he was mostly blind and nobody was ever sure what he could see. I’m sure a little lie to comfort a grieving mother is acceptable every now and then.
Happy birthday, Owen.
A Glorious Mess 