Im not sure if I wasn’t looking hard enough or that she hadn’t been there until now.
I’ve stared out of this bedroom window more times than I can count but I’ve never seen a woman sat under the eucalyptus tree before. If I had, maybe I missed her because she was wearing a brownish bark like dress that blended with the tree, however the more I think about that, the more I begin to doubt it.
She’s a little wild looking, not that I can say I know exactly what wild should look like. People say I’m wild because I was the last in my class to shave my legs. It’s not my fault my mum never owned a razor, she told me that women were born with hair for a reason and she wasn’t going to argue with the order of creation.
She’s wearing a pink dress, although I can see a few psychedelic colours gatecrashing the pastel party. It looks a little like she’s wearing an oversized version of the tie-dye hanky I made in crafts. Her hair is as messy as you’d imagine messy hair to look like – I reckon a bird could mistake her for a beech hedge. The tone of her curls are a deep copper colour. She’s quite beautiful actually.
She’s sat with her legs crossed and her eyes are focused on something. Should I call the police? I don’t think its ok for just anyone to come and sit under the tree in a garden, even if it is communal and I’ve certainly never seen her before. I’d remember if I had.
She looks nice enough I guess, I could go and talk to her but what would I say?
“Hello there, may I ask you why are you sat here under this tree?”
Wait… I have to think about this. Firstly, I don’t know where such an incredibly formal question came from, I don’t think I’ve ever talked so proper to anyone. Secondly, asking her why she’s here could lead to a long and open ended answer, she could be one of those hippy types who never answers a question with a definite conclusion. I know this because my mum was a hippy. Not an outwardly self proclaimed hippy but everyone knew her as the ‘wacky’ one. She knew it and she was absolutely fine with that. I didn’t inherit her confidence.
Also, to ask someone why they’re doing something could lead to an answer I don’t want to hear. Maybe she’s waiting for the right time to kill someone. She could be a super sweet looking serial killer. I don’t think there are particular rules as to what a serial killer should look like, although I don’t think they’d wear a pink, tie-dye dress but then I’ve never met a serial killer before.
What if she’s waiting there to die?
Oh my god, she could have taken a million pills and is waiting for them to slowly decompose her from the inside out.
Ok, so her being there could be nothing related to death. I do have a tendency to let thoughts of death run riot inside my head since my mum died. It’s normal. Not normal to think about death all the time but I’m assuming its normal for me, a girl who’s lost her mum who was also her best friend who was also her guru, who was also her everything, to think like this. Besides, I have no idea how else to think.
My aunt Gene wears black everyday, I asked her why. I wished I hadn’t. To cut a long story short, she doesn’t want to be the focus of anyones attention and black is the most accepted colour in society, according to her.
Gene’s hair is grey but she wears a black woollen hat. I remember her wearing one during May when she came to visit us last year, before I was sent to live with her. I’ve not lived with her during the summer months, not yet anyway but I’m hoping she doesn’t wear wool in the heat. She smells funny as it is.
There is a chance this woman who’s sat under the tree could just be sun bathing, but why in a garden that isn’t hers?
I’ve only known this garden for the last 9 months. I think I only visited Gene two times before the crash, mum and her weren’t the closest of sisters. When she came to visit us last year it was because my dad had run off with a French woman. He’d met her when he’d gone out to buy some chick peas that mum wanted for her vegan casserole. Dad came back three hours later and said he’d met this woman who was selling her river boat and he was interested (yea, now I know exactly what he meant by that!). He called her, they met up and the rest they say, is history. Mum was devastated.
Mum wore every colour of the rainbow and loved warm days so she could stare at the sky and watch the clouds. Gene wears sunglasses, everyday. Come rain or shine, Gene is there with her prescription sunnies. People are funny.
Rainbows are a sign that death has happened, those were Gene’s exact words when I saw a rainbow the day after mums funeral. I bet Gene kills bed bugs just by sleeping in the bed they live in. Poor bed bugs!
There is a slight possibility this woman is hoping to see a rainbow too, her stare does look pretty intense.
Right, thats it, I’m going outside to talk to her, how bad can she be? After all, I do live with a devil fearing woman who kills bed bugs with her breath.
I saw you
Above the tiles that promised to keep out the rain
Your eyes were opal, that’s how I remembered them
And the sun was always setting but your hair was more golden than the light
I sat crossed legged
Like a child waiting to hear a fairytale
Your nails were short
But not bitten, you had been working on the land
And your fingers were stained by the soil
Or the cigarettes you used to smoke
You told me smoking was bad for your health
I assumed you stopped, you never told me you had
And we were there
Saying very little to each other but then we never did speak much
My joints loosened as you spoke and your rhythm pulsed within me
Still, those whispers caught in the tide
Are your way
Go North you told me
Catch the red berries
Place them on the ground around your shivering body
Breathe into your cold palms
And let your warmth remind you
That you are enough
I called you a witch
Because I couldn’t pen you down
You were defiant against description
Beyond the madness of sanity
I was haunted by you
And as I prayed to understand you
Your craft I wished to home
I was gifted with an empty note
And a furious breeze
That beckoned towards the northern sea
Keep moving, I hear
Don’t stiffen with the wanting
As then you’d be like those
And I, I hear
Have become, already.