Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time I crossed the road by myself was when I was 14 and a half. That seems pretty old for someone crossing the road for the first time, but when you realise I’m blind and the road outside my house was Hoddle Street in Richmond (which has cars buzzing past all day and night), well you might not think it was so strange after all.
What I remember while crossing that road is wearing my favourite pink bangle that my dad bought me at The Royal Melbourne Show the year before. I have small wrists and it was a little big on me. I wasn’t halfway across when it fell off. I cried out to mum, but she wouldn’t let me stop and pick it up. I felt so strange without it against my skin, and anxious that I’d lost it forever. I was so angry at mum for not acknowledging its importance, especially since dad had gone and I didn’t know if I would see him again.
Dad, and now the bangle. What’s next?
It was 9 years later when I came home from a day of teaching and my girlfriend announced an airmail letter had arrived for me. I’d been waiting for this day. I knew it was him. She handed me an open box of chocolates. I took a sniff and grabbed two, hoping one was caramel. I sat back on the sofa while she read the letter from my dad, postmarked from Moscow. I felt frozen, my breath quickened. My hands felt cold. I hadn’t heard from him in 10 years. As Charlotte read the letter, I could hear his voice. His warm smile. His tendency to exaggerate. His arrogance. His charm. He had a new family – a six year old son and a wife called Katya. I imagined she was beautiful, tall and blonde.
The next minute, a wave of nausea overtook me and I had to stand. Charlotte asked if I was ok. I didn’t answer. Instead I stumbled to the bathroom and threw up. It was just too much. I stood at the sink and took a deep breath. I was going to be ok. I’ve lived without him for this long, I can keep going and be fine.
I heard a commotion at the front door, followed by a yelp. Charlotte’s voice yelled ‘that is not my dog!’ while a young man argued that it must be, as he found our address on its collar.
I laughed to myself and wandered back into the loungeroom. I sunk back onto the couch until finally heard Charlotte come back into the room, muttering to herself. I felt her stop and knew she was looking at me. I felt her soften. She asked me if I wanted her to keep reading. I said no.
THE END