The small girl walked along the long dusty track. Newspaper clutched to her chest and small brown school case held by her side. To a stranger, it would have appeared to be something she did daily. The determination on her face was deliberate. Fear and doubt were welling but she did not want to let her insecurity show.
I did not want to let my insecurity show.
The path was familiar, but I had never walked it before. Usually Mum in the shiny blue station wagon would be there to meet the bus, or Dad in his green work ute. Not only was it hot and the road home long, but it was also uphill. Dry and dusty on my polished black school shoes. No give in the hard soles for the little gravelly pebbles. My school tunic hung heavily as I trudged.
Grape vines lined one side of the track. The other side, where cattle grazed contentedly, was bounded by a fence topped with barbed wire. The large beasts were a bit frightening to me at five years old but not as scary as the thought that my parents might have somehow disappeared.
It felt such a long way and seemed to take forever, that first walk home.
As the circular driveway came into view, I felt a single tear run down my cheek. A sob but no more. Relief at the sight of the house and the two cars outside; rebellious pride at having made the march alone.
My parents were standing in the kitchen talking. Smiles and hugs as they realised that they had forgotten to pick me up from the bus stop. Laughter from them.
Forgotten me! I’m not sure which was stronger: the relief, indignation at having been forgotten, pride at my little display of independence or exhaustion from the walk.
Strangely, I know it was not the last time I walked the hill home, but it is the only time I can remember.
I can still picture the dirty smudges across the face of that small child.
Across my face, where I had wiped the lone tear away, not to let anyone see that I had been afraid. A determination, I’ve taken into adulthood.
Burnside Writers Group 