Category Archives: Life

Tavurvur Erupts Again


Over a decade ago, I lost one of my closest friends, Anzac Rabbie. He was a talented Papua New Guinean banker who was very well respected amongst his peers and the community. Anzac, named after the famous Anzac Day was from Rabaul. We took Anzac back to Rabaul to bury him. His wife Delma, children Rachael and William and their families who lived in capital Port Moresby, all travelled back to Rabaul for Anzac’s funeral. While we were in Rabaul, the Tavurvur Volcano erupted. It was one of the scariest things I had ever experienced in my life. Anzac’s village was position quite high and inland on a hilltop. However, the eruption shook and destroyed houses, schools and other structures. We were completely covered in ashes. This natural disaster left a very significant memory for me. In PNG we do cover ourselves in some of our regional cultures to show respect for the dead. For the case of my dear friend Anzac, even nature gave him it quite a ‘send off’.

Today I read, Tavurvur erupted again this morning. Here is the story from ABC.

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2014-08-29/papua-new-guineas-mount-tavurvur-volcano-erupts-back-to-life/5705032

Papua New Guinea’s Mount Tavurvur volcano erupts back to life

By PNG correspondent Liam Cochrane

Updated about 6 hours agoFri 29 Aug 2014, 2:28pm

A major volcanic eruption in Rabaul on Papua New Guinea’s East New Britain Island has left the local community concerned for their safety, as residents flee and businesses close.

The eruption came from Mount Tavurvur, which destroyed the town of Rabaul when it erupted simultaneously to nearby Mount Vulcan in 1994.

Authorities said the most recent eruption began in the early hours of Friday morning.

“An eruption commenced from Tavurvur form between 3:30am and 4:00am,” a bulletin from the Rabaul Volcanological Observatory said.

“The eruption started slow and slowly developed in a stromblian eruption with incandescent projections accompanied by explosion noises and ongoing loud roaring and rumbling noises.

“Stronger explosions are generating air phases and rattling windows.”

A strombolian eruption is characterized by short-lived, explosive outbursts of fluid lava ejected tens or hundreds of meters into the air.

Local resident David Flinn described the eruption of lava and rocks as savage and said lightning strikes could be seen amongst the ash cloud.

He said the volcano is currently emitting light steam and occasional booms, with about one centimetre of light brown ash covering surrounding areas.

Mr Finn said locals on nearby Matupit Island, about one kilometre from Mt Tavurvur have fled and yachts have left the harbour.

Authorities have not yet issued an evacuation order for Rabaul residents.

Schools and some shops have been closed, but Rabaul Hotel employee Susie McGrade said locals just want to get on with their lives.

“People still live here, we have to get on with our daily lives,” she said.

“We’re up on the rooves, cleaning off the ash, we’ve got to save our property, try and get back to normal, so what can we do? We’ve got no where else to go.”

It is yet to be confirmed whether the eruption will disrupt local or international flight plans.

Rabaul was the provincial capital in 1994, but after the town was destroyed by volcanic ash the capital was moved to Kokopo.

By comparison this eruption is a relatively small event.

Mount Tavurvur is considered one of the most active volcanos in the region, most recently erupting in early 2013 and recording other erruptions in 2011, 2010, 2006, 2005 and 2002, since the major 1994 explosion.

Living in the Wild West


Our Suburb is Bellbowrie. It is one of several in western Brisbane, Queensland (Australia). Most people here are very friendly and the atmosphere is like a village. We have lived here for three years and seven in Chapel Hill (also in the west) so I am comfortable to speak about the western suburbs. The council offers daily, free buses for the students travelling out from here

With large open spaces and beautiful landscape, just near the river, this part of the west is regarded as one of the richer parts of Brisbane. House prices range from $AUD400,000 upwards. In parts, prices are as high as $2-3 Million. Our house is a fifty-year-old termite ridden renovator with some land I grow vegetables and my sons raise their chickens for eggs. Our neighbours have horses. The area is beautiful and full of wild-life. You can understand why the early settlers came here and eventually made it a pineapple farmland.

Over a year ago a body of a beautiful woman was found at Kholo creek three minutes drive from where we live. This was a very quiet place. The spot was between Mt Crosby and Anstead. In these two suburbs, families live in acreage properties, some farming and these two edge onto Bellbowrie. The discovery of this woman was shocking to all surrounding communities.

As it turned out, the story unfolded very slowly and pieces came together as police worked through the case. From the original story that hit the media; a mother of three daughters going out jogging and not coming home (according to her husband) to the wife being murdered by the husband himself. It has been a year but slowly the pieces have come together. The family lived in Brookfield which is about five minutes from us. The husband has been charged with murder.

Last night my 15-year-old son rung me from Canberra while on a school trip. He told me yesterday  police were canvassing another suburb next to us, Pullenvale. It was an interesting piece of information. I had thought it may have been some drug related search. But, as it came on the news channel tonight, police had made a discovery of large quantities of chemicals they suspect were for bomb-making.

It turned out, the house owners were away in Italy and had rented their house to someone who police now suspect was trying to make bombs.

The suspect had been arrested in another incident in Sydney, NSW and traced back to this rental house on Cedar Rd, Pullenvale.

Today police were unable to move the large quantities of chemicals due which were declared unsafe. To ensure the safety of the nearby residents, Instead, most of the explosives were blown up after police secured the area.

It just goes to show that anything can happen anywhere and people can never be what you think they are. We always have to trust our gut and our instincts but in the end, if anything is going to happen, it will happen. Isn’t that a scary thought?

Links to the news stories;

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2014-07-15/gerard-baden-clay-guilty-of-killing-wife-allison/5548628

http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/queensland/man-living-in-pullenvale-home-where-dangerous-chemicals-found-was-using-navy-divers-id/story-fnihsrf2-1227024766390

Internet Trolls in the Real World


Interesting story about Internet Trolls by Blogger Diary of Genial Black Man

Trevor's avatarDiary of a Genial Black Man

internet troll Courtesy of mrwgifs.com

Have you ever read an internet article and dreaded the comment section that followed? Those poorly-spelled, hate-filled glimpses into the dark recesses of the human soul–complete with racist, sexist, xenophobic, and religious-based attacks on anyone and/or anything that is considered different? Those people are out in the world among the rational, and they are as frightening as their defense of Ghostbusters as a male-only endeavor. I recently had an unfortunate experience with such a piece of human waste.

I write for a local sketch comedy group, and the new season has brought fresh blood for the writer’s pool. One of those eager beavers was a tall, glasses-wearing oaf of a young man, and he quickly made his presence known with his mouth: while the head writer caught people up on new business and the meeting’s outline, the kid interrupted several times with random nonsense as well as calls to read his…

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Thank you!


I write to you – genuine readers of this blog. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. I just logged back into my Blog and saw the ‘stats’. It warms me to see you are still reading the blog even when I have written very little in the past two months. I owe you. Your commitment shows that I am doing something important and it inspires me to keep writing and, try to write better stories.

I apologise for the long delay in bringing you new stories. Things have happened in my life. However, I am truly honoured you hung on. I did write a little about my life while I was away and I will share some of these stories this month.

When I had been in Adelaide over a week ago to surprise my childhood and closest friend Ann Stanley for her 50th birthday, her son Kolohie asked me about one of my stories he had read. ‘Kolo’ wanted to know more about the story which I posted on this blog. I told him a bit more but I was really pleased. It was a story that was significant to his life too because his mother was also there in Port Moresby (Papua New Guinea) and we were working together at the time the body of the young man was found on Ranuguri Hill.

Another recent highlight for me was a visit to the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Australia to interview Jim, (James Sinclair) an author of 32 books about his life and his continuing involvement in Papua New Guinea.  An amazing man Jim lived his dream based on one of his heroes in his stories as a ‘kiap’ in Papua New Guinea. What Jim did not realise then was that dream got him hooked on a country that he never got out of his system. Jim is working on two more books. I will be posting some of my Sunshine Coast visit and interview with Jim here.

My absence from this blog was a result of recent personal attacks on Facebook. I share my blog on Facebook and use Facebook to stay in communication with my family and friends. After a few years and a previous threat last year, I was threatened and blackmailed. I tried to contact Facebook but it became apparent that after you sign up – it is a one-way traffic. It seemed that all the security and the settings you could possibly use to protect yourself are merely a bunch of buttons you press on your key-board and nothing more. I have copies of what FB write back to me several times, one of their comments was to contact my attacker and ask him nicely to remove the threat.  The matter is being handled by police and experts.

I had made my last post on Facebook in that first week of July to not have a FB presence. I was very touched to get offers to help from many family, friends and other people I knew around the world.  I had written to many to explain the reason.

How crazy is it to be in the virtual world? There are always risks involved when you are in public eye.  What you do for the good is never taken into account when there is some low-life with a sick ulterior motive. You always know deep inside you, you know you are never safe. It takes a real incident to truly understand how vulnerable you are. It takes years to become visible and seconds to become invisible. It is not just terrorists with guns that will get us. Our security, dignity, privacy and that basic human right is always ripe for manipulation, distortion and exploitation. All in the name of our virtual world.

I listened to Hack, a Triple J Australian radio programme I respect as I was coming home from work and the discussion was on the public say on ‘metadata’ and how the Abbott government is talking about collecting and keeping all our data. (see link here) http://www.smh.com.au/digital-life/digital-life-news/what-is-metadata-and-should-you-worry-if-yours-is-stored-by-law-20140806-100zae.html

Well, that metadata thing is worrying. I guess we have to decide if it is acceptable that information/images about us can be collected with or without our permission and used by someone else. In the end – would be really have any say or even have the power to control it?

On a lighter note, our creative writing class began again after Isabel had a break, and two of us from our class, Bill Heather and myself tried to write screenplays with Henry Tefay. I don’t think I was really good at it. I loved it though. The pictures were all in my head, but the challenge was to make it a film. I have been working on a screenplay and feel a lot more confident but it may be a year before I can get it read by an expert. Henry teaches this class on Monday nights at Kenmore and Isabel’s class is now on Tuesdays.

The Creative Writing group with Isabel has resumed.  We read, write and learn by talking and sharing our stories. It’s fun!

The core of our small writing group meet after our Tuesday night classes in a Seven Eleven down the road. It is the only place that opens after 9pm. We drink cheap coffee or hot chocolate and talk about our writing projects. We squeeze our seats, milk crates, in a narrow passage behind the freezers that hold ice-cream. The Seven Eleven customers give us funny looks over the freezers as they drop in to get their conveniences. The kind store owner gave us milk crates to sit for the past two terms.

Over my last three terms with the Creative Writing group (this being my fourth), I have learnt a lot from these wonderful people and our teacher Isabel D’Avila Winter. Thank you Gavin, Bill, Judy, Kat and now we have Pam joining the ‘crate squatters’.

The Role Of An Extra


I was recently engaged in a role of an “extra”. The word itself pretty much sums up what it is.

There is nothing more or less. Although the dictionary meaning means more. Extras are non-speaking performers in a film, television show, stage, musical, and opera (Wiki).

In my recent role as an extra in a Hollywood film which I cannot discuss due to my commitment to the agency and the film itself – I had to do several scenes with my colleagues in a natural disaster movie. There were sixty of us. Forty men and twenty women of many ethnicities based here in Queensland. Each of us had a small role to play under an Assistant director, an Australian. He worked with an international Director. As extras we had different actions and some were accompanied by props. When all the parts were played, it was like magic. I enjoyed standing back and watch when I did not play my part. It was like watching a short preview.

The hours of work were very long and started at 5:30 am which meant you had to rise at least at 4 am. Initially I had an hour and a half drive so I rose at 3 am and took the drive. Although it was cold, we acted in our costumes as there were. Although given the frantic weather, the director tried to keep everyone out of the rain through out the day.

Most of the extras had already fitted our costumes days before and these clothing, some were our own, were chosen to fit into the place and the characters in the movie, the place where the natural disaster supposedly had hit. These were not the clothes of our current season.

To be an “extra” means you are not necessarily needed but you can be. It is an important role when you are in it but also an unimportant one. You know it is not important when you do not sit and eat under the same tent as the crew and also when you are trying to get your coffee and the supposedly ‘bosses’ (crew) look at you as if you don’t deserve to have coffee at all. One crew member mouthed to my friend (an extra) “I hope you are not getting 30 cups of coffee because I need to get an adult’s coffee”.

We thought she meant we(extras) were not adults. Who knows..

The important part is when you are called in as an actor in “background”  – your role is important. This can be anything. You could be carrying something and running. I was asked to run into the main character and then step around the person. With all the extras in a background scene, that part of a movie becomes quite vital to the film. It provides “meat” to the bone or it completes the whole creativity for a successful movie. I mean a star can be one in a movie but the star needs a place and many people and actions where that star rises out of the situation to recognition.

Extras are very useful in scenes like a stampede in a soccer grand final. A few extras cannot really provide that impact, you need a lot. Extras are needed in shopping centres, villages, schools etc.

We take “extras” for granted. Tell me: do you really watch an extra in a movie? You know that person that hovers around in the back somewhere in the movie scene. We do not even see extras in movies; our eyes are glued onto the main characters. Our minds are focused on what the main character does and we travel with him or her in the story to the end. We may get distracted if something happens with an extra that takes the focus away from the main character. Otherwise, extras are all a blur. Next time you watch a movie, see if you can pick out an extra and see the important role they are playing.

 

Laisa Taga


Image

If you had asked me if I knew the late Fijian Laisa Taga of the Island Business International I would say “yes”.

Although it may seem strange if I told you that I never met her in person. Last year Eva Arni, head of PR and marketing for Air Niugini, Papua New Guinea suggested that I contact  Laisa about writing some stories for the Paradise In-flight Magazine. When I wrote to Laisa some six months ago, she immediately wrote back with enthusiasm.

After discussing the general understanding of what types of articles to write and the expectations between a writer and an editor were established, we warmed to each other with bits of Fijian words thrown into the conversations. Not long after that, Laisa published my first article on the Kula Trade in the Paradise. I have posted a copy of that article in this blog. I was thrilled. Most of what I had written in the Kula story had been kept meaning Laisa must have liked what I had written. It was true she liked what I wrote because she hounded me after that first story for more.

I had promised Laisa two articles. One on weaving and the other on the Miss South Pacific Quest and the events that unfolded that crowning night.

When I told Laisa I was not feeling very well and would need to send her the articles later to go into the next edition, she accepted graciously and said she would wait. She told me “your health is very important” and I should take care of that first. Tonight as I read an email from Godfrey Scoullar – Publisher & Managing Director Laisa’s colleague, about Laisa’s passing and that she insisted she needed to work until she could work no more I could only cry. Not once did this woman show and make me feel in any way, that she herself was facing the greatest challenge of her life (cancer) which would in the end, take her life. My insides were ripped.

Isn’t it amazing how we take life for granted? And how precious is time?

I had only written to Laisa two weeks ago wondering if she had received my copies. It was unusual for her to take so long to reply. I had taken it for granted that I missed the deadline and I should just wait for her to write back.

And tonight, when I went over our email and how lazy I had become in paying so much attention to other things and not submitting these articles sooner, I feel absolutely hopeless and angry at myself. Jason from A Good Blog is Hard to Find (blog) once asked the question – could you really know someone virtually even though you might have never met them. My answer was “yes” and my answer tonight is “yes”, I do know Laisa. I am so grateful to have known her and especially in her last weeks. Laisa Taga had used her last precious time to continue her work with people like me – to bring stories for enjoyment to thousands of readers like you all over the world. I hope that I had given her something very small in return by what I had written for her editorials.

Farewell Laisa. The angels will rejoice at your glorious spirit that you have shared with us.

Below was the last I heard from her.

 

Joycelin

Bula vinaka.
Just checking on those two stories promised.

I am now working on the next issue of Paradise – collating pieces.

Vinaka
Laisa

 

http://pidp.org/archive/2000/March/03-08-17.htm

 

Islands Business International is touched and comforted by the outpouring of grief and sympathy on the passing of our Group Editor in Chief Laisa Taga who died peacefully surrounded by her close family members at her Suva home on Friday morning.
Quietly and determinedly, Laisa had been battling cancer for some time.

It was her wish she should continue to work until she could work no more.
Her family will announce funeral arrangements once they are finalised.
On behalf of Islands Business International, its staff, clients and its many friends in Fiji, in the Pacific and around the world, I wish to thank you most sincerely for the expressions of sympathy and sorrow on Laisa’s passing.
Laisa was a tower of strength, a hard working and knowledgeable editor with a measured temperament and great sense of humour.
As a regional media figure she was a quiet achiever who downplayed her achievements and never sought recognition.
She has left a vacuum that would be difficult to fill.
May Laisa rest in peace.

Godfrey Scoullar – Publisher & Managing Director
Islands Business International.

 

 

 

 

Short Story “Mango Ghosts”


The Mango Ghosts

Dead End


It was my sister’s birthday today. It was also April Fool’s day.

I celebrated Vagi’s birthday because she turned 34. And, I also celebrated her because she recently became a mum of a beautiful son (just over a year old) and Vagi has made one of the toughest decisions of her life. Only in the last week, she has decided to return home to Wagang, Lae, Papua New Guinea, after over 2.5 decades of living in the capital city, Port Moresby. My mother, brother and I celebrated her home-coming. My family on our land in Bowali, Wagang Village and me at the other end of the telephone in Brisbane Australia all talking and laughing and just being happy.

My sister Vagi had vouched never to go back to Lae again. Over the years we tried to pursued her to return. She would not. Last year, when she had her son, I asked if she would consider taking him home because my mother and brother could help her with her baby. So when Vagi finally made the move, we were ecstatic. My brother and I were so relieved and him being who is said, “it was all in God’s Plan.”

I was pleased because being in the big city has become so expensive. Port Moresby was also one of the scariest place to live in. Vagi’s partner was not always with her, him being part of a ship crew, Vagi would have to raise their son Ratu single-handed in a dangerous, expensive and stressful place. Everyone in the family were thrilled when we spoke after their arrival in Lae on Saturday.

Today, Vagi called. I answered my mobile in Brisbane and wished her a “Happy Birthday”. Vagi broke down and cried and I became afraid. I had no idea what had happened but I had to wait for her to finish crying to tell me her toddler was very ill and had been admitted to the hospital. I was shocked. I had only listened to the little man’s gurgles last night. I truly felt her despair.

Everyone in our family knows the status of health services in Angau and other PNG hospitals. They are mostly ‘dead ends’.

Angau, the public hospital in Lae has been deteriorating for so many years. Coupled with termites having been through the whole facility, the building and service has not been at its full capacity for a very long time for the second largest province in PNG. This issue of lack of proper health services and a good hospital has been a major set back for the people of Morobe Province, especially Lae City. I can imagined why my sister would be so upset. She did not have a lot of choices and it was daunting to go somewhere you think you could trust, but you really can’t.

Personally, I have watched in the emergency ward and other wards in Angau as many family and loved ones died due to no proper care nor basic equipment and medication. I am sure many others have gone through the same heart-breaking experience.

I was alarmed at my sister’s phone call. She assured me that they were in one of the private hospitals which was costing about $AUD300 per night. Not that my sister had such money, hence, the phone call. But even I did not have money to keep up with the such nightly expense.

The panic in Vagi’s voice said it all. It is the same panic many have when they go to Angau. Our people always made a joke that you need to make sure your health is in top shape because when you head to that hospital, you might as well be dead. Many people are afraid to be sick.

When my grandmother had her stroke a few years ago, we were told by private doctors that her lungs had already been flooded with fluid and there was nothing anyone could do. Everyone waited for her to die. After we could not get better assistance, we were directed to Angau and we spent a day waiting for a bed to become available. There was a tug-o-war over the bed between myself and the ambulance assistant that wanted to take the bed back to the private clinic. They were preparing to place my grandmother on the cold dirty and bloody concrete floor until a bed became available, who knew when.

I begged the assistance until they got sick of me and they left the bed with my grandma on it. Throughout the evening in the emergency ward, I helped to answer the phone calls which were going every second and every hand in that ward were busy. I was told by one of the staff that there were five female HEOs (Health Extension Officers), no doctors except one working across the whole hospital. As I watched, several people were admitted into the emergency ward and all were placed on the floor because there were no beds. It was a daunting experience.

And just for a background story, a few years before that, I had through Soroptimist Brisbane (South East QLD) organised 100 beds donated to be donated Angau Hospital. These were shipped from Brisbane to Lae through Lions Club. I was told these beds were used in the wards the hospital needed particular emergency beds which they could not afford. The hospital needed so much more in other areas such as skilled doctors and nurses, medicine and equipment.

I would really like to challenge the affluent, leaders and those in the know to please go to Angau and other public hospitals and take a look around. Spend a day in the emergency ward. I bet you may never want to be rushed into that emergency ward yourself. You would rather take a medivac (medical evacuation) to Cairns or Brisbane or even fly to Singapore for your emergency.

 

RIP Nisha


DSCN1430DSCN1353DSCN1342DSCN1274

Some of the sweet memories of Nisha.

 

A few days ago on a beautiful Saturday morning, my son announced that Nisha our pet scale-breasted lorikeet had died. I had just woken up. I did not believe Nathan.

Nisha was a talkative little thing, just three-four inches tall and an inch and a half wide if you were to measure her.  Her body was tiny enough to fit through a thump and a pointer when you made a ring with your fingers. We often played this game where I would make a ring with these two fingers and she would climb though that ring.

Nisha loved to be held close. From the beginning when her parents would visit her on our veranda, she would snuggle up close after they deposit her meals.

My son Nathan(18) had found Nisha dead on the floor that morning. Nathan wrapped her and waited for me to wake.

“What happened?” was my initially reaction thinking that something killed her.  Immediately I was suspicious of our Rainbow lorikeet “Kaz” who was bigger and stronger and quite capable of harming Nisha.

“I don’t know” was only what Nathan could say. Nisha had died at night. Her tiny feathered body was too stiff. I examined her and saw some scratches but it was not easy to determine the cause of death.  She had some scab on her neck but I don’t think it was a tick. I could not tell.

I was deeply saddened and after re-wrapping Nisha, I held her for a while and then placed her in a quiet place for Nathan to bury her. I could not bury Nisha myself.

I took my coffee outside and sat on our back steps; a place where I always found comfort.  Here, I could look out to the bush. I could also see and hear the birds. It always reminded me of ‘home’, especially the bush I grew up in, in Papua New Guinea.

Nathan said before I woke up, Kaz, the other lorikeet apparently had became very vocal that morning and behaved wildly when Nathan picked up Nisha’s body from the floor. Kaz flew into the glass wall and may have hurt himself. Jaz then flew aimlessly across the living room a few times before he exited through the back door. He would be gone for two days straight as we found out.

The two lorikeets had become very close. But two weeks ago, Kaz had started flying properly and often would disappeared into the wild,  joining other lorikeets. At the same time, our pet duckling who had survived the snake attack last month, also flew away with the visiting flock. I wondered if Nisha died of heartbreak. Nisha had become very moody and often she would bite when we took her outside to play. Both lorikeets lived on-top of the cage – not IN the cage, so they could go anywhere any time.

The idea was that the birds had come from the wild. They had fallen out of their nests and we saved them so when they were strong and fit to return, they would go back to the wild.

For Nisha, we had hoped she would blossom and fly away. It was not to be. Nisha never grew her wings strong enough to fly, like Kaz. Nisha lost a lot of feathers. The new feathers did not grow. But all these last two months Nisha continued to be happy and talkative voice. She would walk across the living room to the music speakers and hang out. Often she would cross over to the edge of the fish tanks and watch the fish, while kicking all their food onto the floor. And she was always up for a cuddle.

Whatever happened to her that night, we will never know. Nathan burried Nisha next to the duckling in my pineapple.  Today, I was startled by the cry of a scale-breasted lorikeet right near my window at work. I looked at her. It was not Nisha. RIP Nisha.

 

 

 

Where My Eyes Are From


Where My Eyes Are From

 

I turned to face the door and sat down in the centre edge. It was the softest part of mama’s large queen-size bed. I ran my large grey eyes over the bed. Papa had built this bed. The bed was rustic but sturdy. Because of the many years in the timbers, the bed talks like an old man when you are on it. Right now, the bed is not talking because I am not moving. The white cotton sheets were crumply and warm. I wanted to climb into the sheets but I could not.

We had buried mama at 3pm. The day had been long and tiring.

The few friends and family returned to our small two bedroom cottage on the edge of town in the hills of Mt Crosby. The offering of sweet tea and cake to the mourners wrapped the day. However, the sweet tea did not change the taste in my mouth. Soon, they left papa and me. We sat together on the small veranda and did not speak. At 15, I knew half of papa was buried with mama this afternoon.

The day hurried passed. Soon, it burnt orangey into dusk. The ambers from the remains of the daylight pierced through the small cottage.

“You can go to her room” Papa had said close to 5pm.

I saw the small clock on mama’s bedside as I sat down. Mama’s room smelt like Vanilla with faint coffee. I had tried to shut out the noises with the door, but I could hear the puppies. All five of them ready for their milk. They needed their mother. A sharp pain went through me.

My hand felt under the pillow slip and I found it. The small white envelope mama promised before she took her last breath. I gazed back at the door. I waited. My heart started to race.

Through the gaps in the window I caught the late breeze approaching carrying bush smells of Gum and Acacia. I could hear my father humming “Gershwin’s Summer Time” and rocking in the old chair. The chair squeak was rhythmic and soothing. It re-assured me of his location. I did not want him to come in.

The house seemed to mimic Papa’s humming and suddenly I felt the sadness heavy in my chest. Papa was a real sweet man. Not only did he lose his woman, but his best friend.

I sat still and held mama’s envelop; firmed by the content of its small card. In this envelope was something mama wanted only me to know. My stomach did not feel right and I knew it was something I do not wish to know.

The room held on to the last of day light. In this dim light I read my name written neatly across with dainty curls. Mama always made a point of making big long tails in letters ‘y’ and “g”.  My name was Margaret Meadows. Mama shortened it to “Maggy” with a “y” instead of an “ie” like in other Margies which was short for Margaret.

I brought the card closer to my nose. It smelt of Vanilla too. This made me smile and my eyes salted. I felt that weight in my chest move up to choke me. I looked at mama’s photo of us in a white frame by the bed. Tears rolled down my eyes. Slowly, I pinched the corner of the white envelop and slit the end through with my index finger. This forced the white envelope open to reveal a small red card.

I eased back on the bed. I felt I needed some support and security before I opened the red card. I let my shoes drop on the wooden floor. I starred at the door; hoping papa would not come in. I need to be alone when I read this. That was what mama wanted.

“My Love Maggy,

You were born a beautiful baby of glorious soft honey skin, pink lips, fair hair and long legs and arms. You were a fairy with piercing eyes. I swear if you had had wings, you would have flown away. Your eyes were a mysterious twinkle to your father and me. When you were little I had wondered if you were worried or just curious about your eyes because you asked me many times why your eyes were different from your father’s and mine. As you know, we both have brown eyes.

I need you to understand that Paul Meadows loves you like his own daughter. There is not a single person that loves you more and not a single reason to be ashamed of who you are.

Your grey eyes came from a man named Peter Sullivan who was once your father Paul’s best friend. Last year, I found out that he died in a car accident while driving back to Brisbane.”