I called myself a Sydney girl, but now the country has been my home for eleven years. The change to a remote farm brought with it the chance to write. I now write regularly, some memoir, some fiction and the occasional poem. But my passion is Microlit.
I have been published in three books. ‘One Thing In Common’, stories of people living with cancer, came to fruition through my work at a major hospital. ‘Eavesdropping’ a book of short stories was the achievement of our local writing group. Being a member of this group has brought with it the opportunity for critical feedback, intensive editing, weekly writing and good humour with a unique group of people. 'Grieve- Stories and Poems about Grief and Loss' Anthology. I enjoy writing short pieces under the name of Microlit, Microfiction or Flashfiction and entering competitions. |
Letter to my Mum Dear Mum It’s a long time since I’ve spoken to you. Your face is dim and blurred. Is the image a memory, or just a remembered photograph that sits between the smelly pages of one of those albums? You would have looked at that album when I was a child, seen your photo and grimaced. You might’ve even asked me to tear it up. What a miracle it was that I didn’t. I’m twenty-six years older than you now. It’s strange being older than your Mother. When I hold your photo up next to my face and stare into the mirror I see no likeness. Why didn’t you give me those bright blue eyes and that curly brown hair? At least then I would feel like your daughter. Our time together was so brief; it’s hard to remember it. You were this bubbly, swirl of perfume, dashing off to some outing - always wearing matching, shoes, bag, hat, gloves and perfect lipstick. Every morning I’d watch with amazement as you filled the space defined by your lips with the dazzling red. To finish it off you would open your mouth just a little to wipe your lips with your poised pinkie. When I was thirteen you married my stepfather. You also became very ill. He was there to look after you and I faded into the background. Everything else seemed to come first. The operations, the radiotherapy, the new marriage, all contrived against me. Books gave me solace. I escaped into books that took me away from my life with cancer and a sick mum. The three years you were sick I blossomed into adolescence, while you lost your bloom altogether. The greyness of cancer filled your being and our lives. I finished school and went to work. I discovered that life was a bit hard. I wanted your hugs but you were so brittle I thought you would break. The phone call came while I was working in that job I disliked. No one knew at work. Back then we didn’t talk about cancer. I don’t think people knew what to say. I certainly didn’t know how to tell them. The days of sharing feelings and support groups were way off in the future. I raced to the Hospital just up the street. You were in a large ward with dozens of other women. The curtains were around you. I wanted to hold you and tell you all sorts of things. I wanted you to hold me and tell me all sorts of things. We didn’t hug and I didn’t say goodbye. How could I fit sixteen years into one moment? I missed that hug. I’ll miss it forever. I can give it though, that motherly embrace, that smothering, warm, ‘you’re important’ embrace. My children are hugged often. We chat about all sorts of things, important or not. They’re nearly as old as you and I’m still here. |