itchy

1 February 2018

a friend moves between carriages and sits down beside me. we start talking. worst night in years. rain smashing on bleary windows. I remember. stormy nights in a crazy fibro. how as a child I’d run between rooms. carrying rags to help my parents. weeping windows require thick tissues. cause and effect. never thought about the window ritual until tonight. a bedroom reeking of stale walls. sweating rags. this was the norm. damp child staring out a crystal-spotted window at the wilderness beyond. with only my parents for protection. they tried to get the keys to their fibro dream. had a mortgage. but the builder defaulted. not till my early thirties was I aware. their embarrassment of windows. no lead flashing. only my curiosity brought out the truth. Where was I born? my ribbons of trust entangling as they talked. my parents too house proud to admit. they were duped. my friend listens. yawns. nods in silence. friendships are built on the puddle of a life such as mine. his. he says good-bye. before the climax. my parents engage a Queens Counsel to obtain an access order. I was almost due. they are desperate. too late. the builder has walked. told they are lucky to have a house. many live in garages. open an envelope with a legal letterhead. another invoice. smash a window to gain entrance. void insurance. I always wondered why money was tight as a 1950s girdle. steam off the station in a nylon frock stitched by grand-mother. hand-knitted woollen socks. itchy for revenge on home wreckers who walk out on clients. ride ends. I avenge the memory and buy a scratchie.

 


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