I was three when the renovation happened. Photos show the scaffolding and dust; the bones of our house, stripped of its muscle and drained of its blood.
My dad was the brawns of the operation, coated in grit and sweating as the second floor took shape.
My mum, soft and warm, cuddled us through the chaos.
Afterwards, our bloodline expanded: me, my brother, my sister, another brother. At twelve years old, one last sister before my parents stemmed the flow.
*
Before Mum, Dad lived alone in our family home. We loved his story about the giant crack in the ceiling: an earthquake caused it, he said. ‘Woo-ooowww,’ we’d breathe in reply, eyes like saucers. An earthquake, in Perth? He swore up and down it was true.
He never did anything about the crack, even during the reno; he might have painted it gold, like Kintsugi, but it was more interesting in its ugliness.
As our family ties bound the bones of our house together, the muscle, flesh and blood made it a human, breathing thing. Our home had a heartbeat that thudded steadily on through movie nights and sibling fights and that time I puked clear across the room.
With so much organic matter wending its way through the walls, the bones of our house sprung flowers. They bloomed for years, only wilting as, one by one, we grew up and took our leave.
*
On a sweltering night in February, I spoke of the steady heartbeat of our family home. I spoke of flowers that pushed their way up through the hearth; the roses that grew even in the earthquake-scar on the ceiling.
I spoke of summers out-running a garden hose pointed our way by Dad, laughing and screaming in the same breath.
I spoke of school days, sprinting home at 3:05 to Mum and ABC Kids. Daycare was a foreign concept, an exotic holiday destination I’d never visit.
I spoke of the overgrown tree in our backyard, with its long, lank leaves – it was the perfect hideout, no toolbox needed. Nature’s cubbyhouse.
I spoke of the muscle-flesh-blood of my memories, and the sunflowers in the floorboards.
As I spoke, we traced the bones of our apartment.We’re up in the trees, a hidey-hole with two pretty cats; but still, the bones are brittle. We are muscle-flesh-blood, but nothing can grow in this soil. The days are hot into April now.
Our backyard is a public park, and while I don’t mind sharing, there’s no garden hose.
We scrape through the weekly shop.
‘You’d make it work,’ people say, but I don’t want to make it work – I want to make it magic. Like it was for me.
A child deserves magic.
So we speak of flowers and bloodlines, and then – finally – the quiet knowing that we share. We can’t give a child magic. The bones are too brittle.
As we cry at the loss, you hold my hand tight.
