Rachael Mead #19, Arthur Street

Arthur Street

I loved the shrieking rows of aviaries,

the woodstove’s bottomless pot of soup,

the brown-eyed dog I was allowed to name.

I loved the creepy retreat of Grandpa’s shed,

the shelves crammed with dusty jars

of bent nails, rusted hinges and odd lengths of string.

Everything had a future, you just had to find it a place

in a chock-full cupboard and wait until

its splendid new life was revealed.

I loved the bright silence of the sunroom,

the eager row of mismatched chairs awaiting visitors

who always preferred the Depression dimness

of the kitchen, that engine room of the house

pumping aunts, uncles, grandparents, boarders,

me and my Mum out into the world and back.

I loved the security that change

came only through addition, nothing was lost,

our house a museum, a twentieth century collection

in which every piece knew it was safely home.

I loved the bedrock of Grandpa’s callused grip

as he guided my patent-leather steps

through the East End Markets in the still-dark mornings,

so proud when I solemnly shake his mates’ hands.

I loved that generous, dignified man without question

when, peering up into the dark branches, he told me

never walk in the Parklands after dark 

because blackfellas live in the trees

when he told me

always check your change when it’s given by an Itey

when he told me

good girls don’t answer back.

Now that world has passed and I am a woman

who strides past empty Parkland trees at night,

answers back and never checks her change.

But every time I see an old man

tear a slice of bread to pieces

then drown them in his soup

I am flooded with the need

to once more feel that hardened hand

hold mine.