Jen felt herself at a loss for words. She was generally pretty good in one to one conversation, however, was feeling particularly shy tonight and glad that she and Joe were amongst a group. She felt the temperature drop in the retro bar where friends and strangers had gathered for a birthday celebration and pulled her thin black cardigan around her shoulders. Gathering her long brown hair to one side, her hand caught on the red sequined choker she had chosen to match a simple black dress with subtle red and gold lines thinly patterning the fabric, giving the Melbourne uniform of black a little colour. What was happening to her? She smiled shyly at Joe. “So, how’s your day been?” she asked, encouraging light conversation so she could clear her head.

Joe was talking, however, Jen wasn’t hearing the words, just the sound of them, softly spoken, soothing, familiar. It had happened to Jen before, meeting someone that she felt she knew, but had never crossed paths with. It was difficult to believe that these occurrences were a coincidence. She played with the red sequined choker she had worn that night. It was an unusual accessory choice for her to make as Jen liked to blend into a crowd. 

Recently though, she’d made a decision that anything that she didn’t use or hold deep sentimental value for needed to be gifted, recycled or discarded. She’d picked the choker up at a night market in Bangkok, and it reminded her of a more adventurous time of feeling free and like she could reinvent herself every day. Life had become too cluttered, and Jen wanted simplicity. She felt overwhelmed by the weight of material history that held memories of life events that were now so long ago that she could barely remember them as having happened to her. 

She had only one regret in discarding part of her history. Jen had moved house more times than she could count, each time picking up her box of cassette tapes and storing them in her next home. She never opened the lid, just shifted the box from one place to the next. She didn’t even own a cassette player, and after a long day of packing, moving and unpacking, a few years ago with an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia from owning too much “stuff”, she tossed the box into the garbage instead of into the back of her car, rationalising that music was available online.

Whilst the music could be replaced and found as mp3’s that took up no space, she missed the feeling of popping a pen or pencil into the cog of the tape to make sure it was wound tight, and never quite knowing what track was going to sound through the speakers of her stereo when she hit play. 

Jen pulled herself back into the moment. She often found herself distracted by thoughts of music, seeing it as the soundtrack of her life. She regretted discarding the tapes, for those precious mixtapes would never be mixed quite the same again, and many were gifts that were now gone forever.

The group she was with were talking amongst themselves, and Joe hadn’t seemed to notice her lack of words. They had shared a few more smiles and glances whilst Jen’s mind had wandered. The dim lighting and upbeat music playing in the background gave a happy and relaxed feel. The décor was of gentle green and orange tones that were warm and reminiscent of a time gone by, but not yet passed. The lamps glowed purple, orange, red and yellow, and had character, not like those mass produced Ikea lights that lit up every space these days. Jen realised that what she liked about a place was how she felt and she wanted her home to feel like this space did.

She wanted space for new memories, distance from some old memories whilst still holding some of the ones she cherished. Not being materialistic, and an experienced backpacker who could live indefinitely out of a bag she could run with need be, this overwhelming amount of “stuff” that she had accumulated was starting to feel like a heavy weight holding her in place. She thought of a tin of coins and notes sitting on her dresser. It contained the currency of countries she had visited over her many years of travel, in hopes of returning there again. Did she need those?

Finally, Jen looked up and made proper eye contact with Joe, fully present in the moment. “I feel like we’ve met before,” she said softly, leaning in towards Joe. “Me too,” said Joe, “We haven’t though, have we?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Jen. 

They continued to look at each other shyly, using their eyes rather than words to communicate in the noisy room with its layers of music, conversation, clinking glasses, closing doors and trams passing by. “Hey, do you know this song?” asked Jen. “Yeah, hang on, I need a second,” replied Joe. They both looked at the speaker above as if it held the answer.

“Jamiroquai!” exclaimed Joe. 

“Yeah, one of my favourites, ‘Canned Heat’.” Jen smiled as she answered.

“Hey, we should dance,” suggested Joe, moving gently towards Jen and unimposingly guiding her towards the dance floor. 

Jen hesitated as she looked out to the uninhabited yet inviting dance floor. Sometimes it just took a couple of people to start something new. Jen followed Joe under the sparkly lights and found herself in this song, which held so many memories for her. Dancing when no one was watching. On the side of a road in broad daylight to keep warm whilst hitch hiking in Finland. In a hut in Norway when she felt alone and depressed. With synchronicity on the eve of her 40th interstate at “No Lights No Lycra” with some of her oldest friends. There was something there, in the absence of words and in the presence of music, that provided a connection that went beyond. Beyond anything that words could convey.  

The first time she saw it, her heart stopped. How could something so amazing, so beautiful, be on this earth? How was such perfection possible? She’d never seen a sword like this. To her, living in this little Japanese village surrounded by beauty for the last seven years, perfection and tradition had become commonplace. But this…the shape of its hilt, a pommel with a beautiful gold signature weave, the gleam of the blade in the sunlight. It was perfectly balanced; the weight of the hilt was the exact weight of the blade. She should know, she’d held plenty of swords – and knew how to use them.

The temperature dropped suddenly, with a cool and sinister breeze from the south. The village had, up until now, been enjoying a brief spell of sunny spring weather. But this quick lash of cold made her suspicious that this was in fact an omen. Why had the wind changed upon her holding this blade?

Whilst on an expedition to Hong Kong with her Sensei, he had given her a two dollar coin. She had stared at it in her palm for so long. He instructed her to do whatever she wished with it; but her choices would be noted. She could keep it, spend it on frivolous things, buy food or give it to someone needier than herself.

It was difficult to believe that anyone could be needier than she. Having come from extreme poverty in the outskirts of Hiroshima, scraping together enough for even one meal a day was commonplace. Her only toy growing up had been a cheap plastic whistle that she’d found on the side of the road. Having never seen one before, she was quite startled when, by accident, had blown into it and heard its voice. She still carried that whistle around with her as a token of the days before she left that horrible place. Family that treated her like a stray dog. Associates who used her in any way necessary to earn quick cash. She would one day have vengeance, and the whistle’s song reminded her of the promise she’d made herself.

Her Sensei was a wise man who had met her by accident. He found her bloodied and beaten on the streets of Okayama, the city closest to the village where he taught his students. She struggled for many years after joining his college, and suffered from terrible claustrophobia. Instead of sleeping inside the traditional paper walls with the other students, she would choose to sleep outside on the deck – in case she needed to escape without warning. The screaming through the night was not missed by those inside. The memory of being raped and enclosed in a garbage receptacle on its way to the processing plant had ensured a lifetime of nightmares and mental issues. She was by far the most damaged of his students, but this did not mean that she could not achieve greatness. A tremendous power was within this girl, everyone knew it. It was his responsibility to guide her towards light and truth, rather than allow her be eaten by remorse and revenge.

Her Sensei always seemed so happy and relaxed to her. This was in stark contrast to her black, eaten soul which would never rest. As far as she was concerned, her life was coloured one way and there was no going back. He would try; the beautiful, Buddha-like man that he was, and she adored him for it. But in her heart knew it would never work.

Finally, on this day, she received her first weapon. The Sensei’s students had to work and study for many years before a weapon was granted to them. This was her day. She had been so excited about the promise of something beautiful and pure being hers, and truly earned. It was so unbearable that she hadn’t slept properly in weeks. And now, it was in her hands. Its beauty. Its magnificence.

But what did the cool wind mean?

The fellow students felt it when she held the sword. She glanced around like a cornered animal at her fellow peers, knowing that they all knew. She dreaded looking upon her Sensei’s face. But her eyes found his and it could not have been worse. His usual bright, forgiving features now showed sorrow and, for the first time, fear.

What had she done? It was not her fault that the wind had changed. Did it mean anything? She knew it. Her peers knew it.

The moment stretched an eternity; time was frozen. She knew now the one thing she had to do. The only thing she could do. After seven years in the loveliest place she’d ever been, surrounded by the most accepting souls, taken in from the cold. She turned to the village gates, and ran as fast as she could. What waited for her on the other side she did not know.

The first time was the hardest. It got easier after that. Or maybe it was just that the shock had worn off and she knew what to expect. It didn’t mean that she liked it or wanted it, just that it was easier. Easier to remove her ‘self’ from the situation. Her body was going through the motions but her mind was removed. She was running through a field of wild flowers or flying through the air like an eagle. Anywhere really…anywhere but here.

The green fan lay on the dresser. She got up from the bed and walked towards it. The temperature dropped as evening fell. She closed the windows and pulled a silk gown around her body, tying it at her waist. He had left a $10 bill next to the fan on the dresser. It was also green. Green used to be her favourite colour. Now it just reminded her of where she was; what she had become. Her old life was a distant memory. Sometimes she wondered if it was real or is she had dreamt it.

She picked up the fan. It was difficult to believe that she had been so happy when he first gave it to her. He had seemed so generous back then. Fun even. He tried to make her laugh often. He wanted to please her. Or so it had seemed at the time. She was too young to realise what was really happening. Too young, or maybe too stupid. Her parents weren’t much better. He had sucked them in with his smooth talk and promises of a better life for her. His lies.

She flicked the fan open and waved it back and forth in front of her face. She looked at her reflection in the mirror of the dresser.

Claustrophobia gripped her and she ran to the window and threw it open again. She felt like she had been a prisoner in this room. In many ways, she had. She only left to use the bathroom and eat her meals. This was her life now. She hated it and she hated him. She hated this fucking green fan. Hated the way it made her feel, the memories it dragged up.

Happy and relaxed, that’s how she used to be. She didn’t recognise herself anymore. Wasn’t sure who she was now; what he had turned her into. Right now, she felt like a caged lion, pacing. She had accepted this as something she had no control over but now she was starting to feel something else. Some hidden strength that she didn’t know she had was starting to push its way into her conscience. She was starting to feel something.

Finally she felt that maybe she had a choice. It might not be a great choice, but it was her choice. She could take the power over her life from him. It seemed so simple now. She knew what she had to do. She went to the open window and carefully climbed up onto the window ledge. She looked at the street below. She heard the birds singing and felt the warmth of the sun caress her cheek. She thought of her parents back in their little village in China. She wished she could be there now. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and jumped.

Unbeknownst to her, a cart carrying a load of hay was passing just as she jumped. She landed right in the middle of it. No one was more surprised than she was. She sat up and her eyes found the window that had been the opening to her world, receding into the distance. Her heart pounded and she wasn’t sure what to think. Nothing made sense. She had thought her life was ending but now it seemed it may just be beginning.

So it’s just there, right. And it’s kind of no big deal, because they weren’t looking for it and actually the bundle of money next to it is totally more interesting – I mean, they know what to do with money, right? And they could tell you too; give you a list of the shit they might buy at the tienda. They could rattle that off – refrescos, candy, helado. They might take some down the street to the bigger tienda where the old lady sells some toys too. Buy a ball, a pen. Like, this is the shit kids dream of, right? But the chunk of metal with its familiar lines and its unfamiliar presence, it kind of holds them for a moment. They don’t even speak. It looks heavy, so Samuel reaches into the gap that Marcos is making by holding the foam mattress up. He puts his hand on it first. He don’t know why, but he wonders for a minute if it might be warm, breathing. It’s not. It’s cool and smooth and he straight away likes the feel of it. I mean, it feels like nothing else he’s ever felt. ‘Cause there’s metal all over this place, right? The little dude’s house got that wavy metal on the top for a roof. The gate at Senor Juarez’s place, that’s metal. The pole you gotta hold tight to on the bus, that’s some smooth-ass metal right there. But this is somethin’ else. It’s got no dust or nothin’. No chipped paint. No rough bits. Just smooth and cool.

Samuel curls his fingers around the longest bit of metal and pulls it towards him. Marcos takes a breath and they both realize they been holding the air in their lungs. It makes ‘em giggle. That kinda nervous, we-both-just-felt-the-exact-same-thing-at-the-exact-same-time giggle. And while they’re giggling, Samuel is pulling the whole gun into his hands and cradling it and Marcos is laying his hands on top like they tryin’ to keep it safe and warm. They stare at it some more.

So, which end the bullet come out of, hermano?

Um, I guess the one with the hole in, right?

Samuel tips it to the side. They both lean sideways to try and find the hole and bump heads.

Puchis, ow, Marcos!

Sorry hombre, I just wanted to see.

It’s here.

Samuel jerks the end upwards to show Marcos which end he means. He’s still holding it like an injured mouse, or somethin’.

It’s really only a split second. Not even. The sound of it hitting the floor messes with Samuel’s mind, cause it don’t thud like most things do on the mud floor. It cracks.

Woah, Marcos did you hear that sound?

Samuel reaches down for the gun and the weight of his friend crashes on top of his six year old body. Marcos ain’t a small kid either, so Samuel he hits the ground too, with his buddy on top of him. And something in the way his body connected with Samuel’s back, kind of full contact jelly, says somethin’ ain’t right. So he just freeze. He lies so damn still the only thing moving is the dust around his face when he breaths. And he can feel the liquid, thick like syrup, soaking warm into his t-shirt.

He feels like he needs to move, but he also knows that if he moves he won’t be able to pretend Marcos is just sleeping, suddenly, on top of him.

I am 30 metres beneath the surface of the Flores Sea.

There is a dull roaring in my ears, as the heaving current swirls and bubbles above my head. The vast blueness envelopes and disorientates me, and I wonder if I have tumbled into an abyss, from which I can’t return. Trying to gain my bearings after the rapid descent into the deep, I notice my lungs will not fully inflate with air.

In an instant, I recall the Dive Master’s words: …3 atmospheres of pressure on top on your body…your lung capacity will be reduced…

But this feels different. Almost in the same instant I realise my oxygen tank is empty. It must be faulty.

I have no oxygen, and I am drowning.

I enter full-blown panic. My breaths suddenly become short, desperate gasps. My heart pounds in my chest, as if it knows it is beating it’s last beats. I have felt this terror before, but not trapped under the sea. Almost mad with fear, I swim the few metres to the Dive Master. I claw at his arm, until he turns to look at me, and I make the signal for “I’m out of air” – a violent “cutting” or “chopping” the throat with a flat hand.

The Dive Master grips my arms, and makes the sign for me to look into his eyes. I fix my eyes on his. His eyes become my whole world. They are calm and kind, and they tell me “You are going to be okay”. I trust those eyes with my life.

The Dive Master signals to me to breathe with him. Slowly, I breathe. In…out. In…out. Within moments I feel my heart beats slow, and I am breathing in air! It dawns on me I am not dying. I have had a panic attack, 30 metres under the ocean, in a foreign country, alone except for some tourists I have just met, and the diving company staff. I am not dying. I am breathing.

The Dive Master holds my hand firmly in his for the rest of the dive, more than 20 minutes. His hand is my lifeline. He doesn’t loosen his grip, not once. He is an impoverished man from rural Indonesia, and he has saved my life. I am deeply humbled.

“What happened down there?” the Dive Master asks when we surface. “I don’t know,” I lie. “I just freaked out.” The Dive Master’s expression is puzzled, and he searches my face for something more. I am ashamed of my broken mind, and feel the tears start to well in my eyes. I hide them from him.

I return to Australia, once again with the blackness of panic attacks threatening to overcome me at any moment. I shed a few tears, allowing myself a few seconds of sorrow for having this affliction that sometimes haunts me.

I have got through this before, and I will again.

I park the car and head for the house. Don’t expect her to make a fuss over you, I reason as I walk up the drive.

Remnants of a garden cluttered by Bunnings crap leads the way to the front door. Once inside the smell of animal hits followed by ear-splitting barks. Annoyed, I step over the pee mat on the kitchen floor and look for my mother. Who lets their cats and dogs pee in the kitchen? I am ashamed already and I haven’t even laid eyes on her.

She is in her chair, tea cup in hand with an oversized television on in the background. She does not get up. She says hello then her gaze returns to Eddie Mcguire.

I feel stupid for wanting her to welcome me. I need her to open her arms and smile in a way that creates laughter lines. It’s taken fifteen months, an interstate flight and a rental car to get me here. Instead I convince myself that it is reasonable for a mother to greet her child with no fanfare.

I ask her if she wants a cup of tea. Dutifully I walk into the kitchen and turn on the kettle. As usual the bench top is full of new plates and tacky shit from the two-dollar shop. Each time I come more clutter is forced into every nook and cranny. I don’t get it. In contrast to her, I loathe buying anything new.

I open the fridge. Next to the milk is my step father’s gin. It’s 5pm, an acceptable time to pour a drink. Besides, I’m in the tropics and a G&T is beckoning me. As I reach for ice cubes, I notice a piece of paper with my mother’s handwriting on it. I know what this means. She thinks she can freeze someone out of her life by placing them in the freezer. Bitch! It’s one of my sister’s names. The betrayal snaps any compassion out of me.

Just as I pour myself a drink my wife appears with our luggage. I can’t gauge if her eyes are judging me for drinking or giving me sympathy for being here. I just want to be wrapped up in her arms and melt away. Instead I make my mother her tea and feel obligated to unstack the dishwasher. The dishes aren’t mine but I am petrified of the accusation of being ungrateful for the free bed and feed.

I look at the clock. It’s late enough to chat for half an hour then find solace under the doona in the spare room. I sit in the unfamiliar lounge room and look at my mother. She is beautiful. Her hands have aged since I last saw her. Was she ever gentle or kind? I know a lullaby off by heart and once overheard my sister singing it to her kids. She must have been kind. We would only know it if she sang it to us.

Life is not a journey

A meandering path at best

Caught unaware at crossroads

The walker dare not rest

The path ahead obscured

Twists wildly to the right

A wall of foliage shades the way

Thorns hidden out of sight

Life is not a linear route

The past bears its’ own weight

The future an illusion

Which step decides my fate?

The stars shine on regardless

of choices that are made

Humanity is miniscule

Upon the universal stage

Yet every step imprints

A mark upon the ground

Filled with love and empathy

All life can be profound

Adversity can suck you down

So shine bright against the night

Stride ahead with joy and hope

Because life is worth the fight.

The first time I saw my mother as a separate person was in the late 1960s watching her peg washing on the line. My mother standing there, pegs in a bag laced around her waist over her apron, arms stretched up performing her daily ritual. Pegs on her line always matched the colour of the washed item in question: tea towel, dress, socks, blouse.  The two pegs the same colour, the colour matched to the tones and the hues of said washing. White pegs all along the white sheets.

Pegs identical. Always. My mother as archivist, librarian, scientist, artist. My mother in the middle of the back yard in suburban Sydney, thirty feet from the laundry window, thirty feet from her watching daughter. It was the 1960s when I disconnected her from myself, when I realised that she was making choices different from my own.

The next time was years later, when I held a pen in my hand, watching, waiting for her to leave the room where my father, her husband had just passed away. I was meant to be writing a list of things that needed to be done – song titles, photos to be found, food or rather refreshments, myriads of phone calls – all the practicalities which accompany recent death. For me death was an unknown entity. I was writing memories.

Eventually she stood and her face was as resolute as faces can be. My mother’s life was now her own, separate from all that had been before. We walked to the hospital lift together without a glance back.  I hesitated but only in my mind. My feet dragged but as they say only metaphorically. I wanted to stay and not leave him there alone, but she never hesitated and we walked out, out into the light of the afternoon and got into our car and drove away.

Is that your story, your experience of death?

It is mine and one now with emotions so deeply interned that I have never gone to my father’s grave. Twenty-five years later this is still so overwhelming that my voice can’t utter any of this above a whisper. I am lost and unable to go to the place that I want to though now wonder if I need to.

Should I ask a friend?  No one has heard my desire, no one has seen me this way. In sixty years I have never broken down in front of any one. Who could I take to my father’s grave?

My lover? My granddaughter? My mother? Each one attracts complicated emotions.

Do you have a blue one asked my mother at the funeral home.  A blue coffin, don’t ask me why, a blue draped cloth surely would do. What did she know, what did she want to match this time?

This was not a wedding I thought, something old something blue – time was collapsing and the bad joke in my thoughts was not lost – weddings, funerals, christenings, blue for boys, for fathers wounded in wars, for fathers suffering the blues.

Blue haze certainly swirled in the days that marched on in those years after my father died. I probably needed to be told, you have permission to cry, you have permission to die a little inside.

It’s called disco dingo my mother said at the funeral home, he would like it played when we leave the service. I was no longer listening, I was merely surviving and hovering above it all.

Can you smell that? I said when we left the crematorium, the eucalypt in the air? I think he would like that. Even since I have looked out for a delicate scented candle to bring it all back but eucalyptus oil could never be deemed ephemeral, it’s far too potent for the business of grief.

A few days after my father died, a kookaburra flew down and sat under the clothes line, the line that still stands thirty feet from the laundry window in suburban Sydney, and I knew that my father was back.

Kookaburras now follow me wherever I go, turning up in any place where I need to know that I am safe, at retreats far from home, at times when I just needed a companion and once at a cancer healing centre in the hills outside Melbourne. I have learned not to be surprised.

I don’t pin up washing using clothes pegs of the same colour, chosen to perfectly match the colour of each separate tea towel, dress, sock or blouse. I am less patient than my mother for that task. I do however never put two pegs of different colours on any piece of washing. Whenever I rush and tell myself this is ridiculous, I always sigh and reach into the peg bag laced around my waist and change them to make it so.