Nanna's Garden

A rusty white swing hovers over the grass in nanna’s backyard. The ornate wrought-iron shadow remains still and silent in her garden full of geraniums. Our young bodies are too small for outside labour, so we wander to the shade house and wait. But not for long. We drink from the sprinklers that water the fuchsias and squeeze the buds until they pop open. 

We take turns opening the creaky door to the grey shed, peering inside to see if a secret portal has opened up for us to escape. Black spiders live in here with the Blood & Bone fertiliser and antique furniture. Our dad’s abandoned youth lives here, too, discarded and mouldy. The musty smell lingers as the sun sets outside and time rests. 

As the three of us walk single file along the pavement, ticking echoes from the wooden clock atop nanna's empty fireplace welcome us back into a cold house. We all think this place is haunted. Old newspapers are stacked high in the corners of rooms. Lace coat hangers full of potpourri sit quietly in cupboards. Black and white photographs of unrelated relatives remain spread out for years at a table with too many chairs. 

We are left alone to stare through the patio glass door at the darkening sky while nanna snores in her bedroom, out of sync with time.