Aunty Gracia kept us all awake at the end of day. By this I mean, she really did keep us awake as early hours cracked to smooth light mornings and late night starlights twinked on out. But I also mean she really kept us awake awake; alert, brain thinking, heart feeling, soulful. Nothing was left out.
Aunty Gracia was where we kept out hearts of longing and being, singing her songs by suburban seaside and city skies. Practising remembering of being with her when we weren’t. And knowing she was keeping it for us too, holding it all in sweet melodies of warmth and luscious nourishment.
In our old car crammed family full, we would set out for the hills watching watching the long black road dash loaded with white lines quick slipping under the car for miles and miles. Winding roads strapped the bare hillsides, valleys of blackberry and thistle, willow bound creeks, sheep dotted on steep green hills wound round with hoof spiralled paths. Countryside of pasture and old hope. Our best balm of hope, was Aunty Gracia.
We never seemed to have left once we had arrived, car tires crunching up the long dirt drive. Car windows fully wound down, sniffing the dusty aroma of the pine trees square rounding the house on the hill. And eucalyptus woodsmoke and what was cooking for dinner fine flavoured with the heady sound of chatter and laughter and singing. There we were again, at last, where everyone was family, swarm drawn together towards the light of each other in the falling dusk. A forest of commune, striplings, new growth, old growth, understory over-story. Tree branches galore shooting from mothers fathers, sprouting to sisters brothers aunties uncles, a swaying canopy of friends of neighbours and cousins and cousins, once twice thrice removed, all together.
