Thursday, August 17, 2006
Through the hothouse
Hothouse flowers, jardinières, an exotic creature sits on a bench. Processed heat pumps out of sweaty radiators. Goldfish laze around contrived jungle pools amongst soggy pelleted food and shiny coins irretrievably sitting on the bottom. Fancy language is now needlessly being used. Dad’s glasses always fog up. Annual Boxing Day trip drags. The hothouse is my favourite spot, a reprieve from the cold outside and I can escape my parents a little. Bleeding heart pigeons are my favourite in here. Often at Christmas there’s someone my heart is bleeding for, unknown to my folks. They’re a lot like ordinary English Wood Pigeons, but with a bright red bleeding mark rolling down each chest. Slightly out of place with the bright pinks and the peacock shining blacks of the other birds. Perhaps hothouse is a metaphor for a hot heart. Like any hothouse it’s tired and sludgy around the edges, with a stagnant stuffy smell of rotting fruit and bird poo. No butterflies. I loved going to see the butterflies when I was a child. They sold dead ones pierced through into a piece of cork, set in transparent plastic boxes. My mum and dad assured me they died of natural causes at the farm before they bought me one. A bright yellow and white one. Its name escapes me now. The huge platters of over-ripe fruit attracted huge butterflies the size of my dad’s hand. Even now butterflies hold a huge fascination for me. They can never hurt you as they have no moving mouthparts, just a tube to suck up sweetness. They’re unaware of the delight they bring, or the sadness felt when I find a dead one. I remember seeing my dad’s softer side after church one day, leaving sugar out on top of a tomb for a trapped butterfly. It was flying too high up against the stained glass for us to catch it, but we tried. Sharp contrast to the nasty grumpy bugger he often was. He’d be unnecessarily militant at the dinner table but then show such concern sometimes when I couldn’t sleep and came downstairs to find him. When he rarely brushed my hair he'd be unbelievably gentle. It’s just me and Dad in the hothouse, I moved towards him feeling guilty affection. Mum’s still outside looking at other strange creatures. Exotic birds swoop through the awkwardness. I don’t think my pa knows how to talk to girls.
¶ 7:56 pm 
Comments:
<< Home
Wow Jackson- that is very touching. I love the end line- it's like a secret glimpse at someones' childhood..
You are a talented writer my dear.
Post a Comment
You are a talented writer my dear.
<< Home
