Amy sent these to me for my birthday. She thought I might be missing Australia. She was right. Yesterday I was counting up how many new poems (35), new essays (6), and six more short stories since I last put them into a book on Amazon. So this summer there will be a new one from S. Webster. There is editing to do and a new cover to be designed and maybe a couple more writings.
But this one I found while getting organized was perfect with Amy’s gift.
Australia Longing – S. Webster
What is it that causes this sudden sadness, or longing, or need? This time it is a recipe on the back of the Tasmanian Basketmakers Newsletter. Anna Lizotte’s family recipe for Tomato Spice Cake. How can “tomato” and “cake” be in the same context? And then it happens.
I miss Australia right now. At this very minute I want to be there. How do I care for this longing? Why is it so fierce? I can smell the soil, feel the air on my skin. I can taste it. Will it be like this later when I am too old to return? My eyes fill with tears at the thought of not being there. Why does it matter so much? Two glasses of wine that weren’t even Australian. What triggers these emotions?
It is the longing thing – that longing that we have no control over. It just comes sneaking in and takes hold. No words can explain it. My husband glances over and then away – no words are best. I look ridiculous or nuts right now. And I feel bereft. “Bereft” – that is the perfect word, and I am slightly better now I’ve defined it. I think it happens when too many memories of times in Australia pour into my consciousness and push everything else away. Only Australia is there – the people, the land, the tastes, the smells – the longing.
I can’t remember when this was written…certainly before Lee became ill. But I am glad to have put those feelings into words on paper or stuck them into the netherworld of my laptop.
So Amy tells me to just make a small tear in these packages and inhale Australia. Maybe this afternoon at wine time.
The internet has made it easier to keep in touch with Australia. I linger over images of Eucalypt trees and the red center of that country. And there are literally hundreds of pictures I have taken over all my trips down under. Nothing better than the eyes of emus and kangaroos. And at eighty-one, I am not going to return. The saying goodbye when the time came to leave would be too much.
Perhaps when my ashes are turned into stones like Lees were, a couple will be sent down under.
Which reminds me. Last week on my birthday, a friend took me to lunch and then over to my old place. The new owners were so kind to take us on a tour through the entire house. So many changes! And so beautiful! they have more common sense than Lee and I had, so filled in the long fish pond and removed the big planter of black bamboo that made getting around the driveway near impossible! The colors on the walls are very calming and lend themselves well to her many quilts. I asked if I could come back with a couple of Lee’s stones to toss out into the woods where his deer would come from to eat the corn we put out, and they said, of course. I also will give them the sketchbook I did of every step and cost of building the house.
I just wrote this poem to take to the next poetry group.
Temporary Storage S. Webster
Occasionally on my walks through the neighborhood,
I glimpse into garages and notice the new neighbors have
filled theirs with things they could not leave behind.
Within a year those things will be moved into storage.
Another six months visiting their belongings before realizing
they are paying a stranger to keep what they can’t remember.
One last attempt is made to get children to form an attachment
to things they were forced to be careful around.
And it’s gone. Strangers buying what you can’t remember.
Till later…I need to get another 1000 steps in to reach my goal of 7,000.