Memories of some chats I had with my father revolve in my head from time to time.
Back when I was little, moving houses seemed to be our lifestyle. My parents were teachers and they were sent to a remote rural town at the beginning of their careers. Their wish was to move back to their hometown, to be close to their respective families. Over time, they did it, by coming closer and closer, one move after another. I remember him saying how much he wished for us to settle and develop roots in one place, that we wouldn’t have long term friendships if we didn’t.
As a young adult, I repeated the pattern myself. I moved houses with my own family many times, mainly due to my jobs until I finally decided that it was time to have a family home. Yes, the big family house, the one that would cater for everything and everyone.
An old house was offered to us and we decided to take it. The price was below its value and once I reached the top floor when inspecting it and saw the ocean view, I fell in love with the possibilities. I fell in love with the dream. There was only one thing missing though, a garden.
The house was on the side of a hill, built in levels adapted to the hill and had almost no room for a garden. I overlooked that desire. It hurt, but perhaps not enough for me to reject the property.
While the house was being remodeled, my husband started to be more absent than usual and I ended up supervising the works alone, deciding colours and materials. I chose every piece of furniture myself. I was paying, so I believed my husband just wasn’t comfortable with that.
The house wasn’t yet finished when we divorced, so when I finally moved in, I didn’t even bring a teaspoon from my married life. New beginnings, new start.
All my extended family spent Christmas and New Year’s Eve in that house several times. There was space. Everyone had room. Everyone enjoyed the ocean view, the terrace, the pool. We had enough toilets even for a salmonella outbreak! What a joke!
The house has now been empty for nearly 10 years…alone, abandoned. No more parties or family gatherings; memories of faces and voices have faded within its walls.
The violence in Mexico scattered my extended family around the world in the search of an opportunity to have a real life. A life with no fear. In my case, I took my two children and moved once more, this time, to the other side of the world.
Now, I see my nomadic journey reflected in my pot plants.
At the beginning, I refused to have more than four plates and four cups. I refused to have plants. I considered my apartment in Glenside as a temporary home. Then, a tiny succulent in a little glass jar was left behind when my daughter moved to Melbourne to study at University. I looked after that plant because I felt I was looking after my daughter.
One day, a new friend gave me a pot plant. Then some more plants started to come. A few years later, after selling that apartment to keep fuelling our life here in our new country, I realised that my pot plants had grown and multiplied. I still have small, cute pot plants but I also have some plants in big pots, those ones that are not easily moved around.
Today, looking at my pot plants, I realised that despite growing and thriving, their roots are still contained. My pot plants can’t develop roots in the Australian soil just yet and knowing this, hurts.
Those memories of the chats I had with my father are spinning in my head again.
Burnside Writers Group 