A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

“You’ll never go back. It’s in the past. Forget about it.” My uncle’s words resounded in my mind as I stepped down onto the tarmac. It was raining gently, just how I like it. With a deep breath, I took in all the familiar scents and the fresh air; I was home again.

As I started the long drive down to the country, I began to reminisce. Looking back now, I realise I was oddly nostalgic for one so young. I drove through town and past Mures; the smell of fresh fish and chips wafted across the wharf. I passed the museum, my early source of history lessons, and my mind wandered to Truganini. I became lost in a daydream.

I reached the valley in time to witness the last of the morning mist. I looked back up at Sleeping Beauty. Intermittent traces of winter snows still dotted her peaks, like a dusting of icing sugar on chocolate cake. As I rounded the bend, early apple blossoms caught my eye. Beautiful.

I had not seen the house since it was painted. Rounding the bend, I stopped to admire that first view from a distance. It looked pretty, camouflaged on the hilltop. As I pulled up, it suddenly seemed different to the fairy tale I had left behind. It looked pathetic, run down. Only sporadic daffodils decorated the yard. The pansies were either gone or hidden under rampant weeds. The gate was missing off the stable Dad and I had built for the pony.

The current inhabitant invited me in for coffee. It was smaller than I remembered it. It looked old. The grey carpet had not aged well. Maybe it had always been like that. The sitting room was now in Louis XIV style, gold leaf and red furniture. I grimaced; what was once so homely seemed so distant. The tiles in front of the fireplace had been cracked. Even the kitchen was different. Most of the cupboard doors had lost their handles. It was all falling apart.

I walked down to the dam and sat on the edge of the bower. The turf had all dried up and turned yellow. There was no seat there now. It had been raining, and the dam was full of muddy water. The brambles were overgrown and I had trouble reaching the windbreak at the bottom of the property. Our fence was still there. My inscriptions were faded, but nevertheless present. I climbed through the fence, checked the ground for snake holes and carefully made my way through the thick undergrowth.

My tree. It was a big Huon Pine. It had been my special place when I needed solitude. It wasn’t as picturesque as it had once been. No matter. I sat down on a big root and contemplated my childhood. I missed the country. It had been such a wonderful place to grow up and I had been so upset to leave it. I hated the city; the smog, the traffic, the population density and the way it seems so unfriendly.

I missed Sam, too. He had been my best friend. Now he was dead, and I’d never had the chance to say good bye. Everyone thought I was over it, over him. They thought I was strong, that I knew it didn’t matter, that I knew it was in the past. They didn’t know that I still cried for him, and I wasn’t going to tell them. “Let them think what they will,” I said with conviction. “This place is my home. This is my life. I’ll come back. I’ll prove them all wrong. I know where I belong,” but inside I knew that reality was otherwise.

My uncle had been right. This was in the past. I could never go back to it. It wasn’t home. I didn’t know where home was, because it certainly wasn’t in the big city where I now lived. “Why did this place have to change?” I asked out loud, as if talking to the cow standing near the fence. But inside I knew, I knew it hadn’t changed. I had. I suddenly realised that I’d grown up. I’d not planned it to happen that way, but my plans had nothing to do with it. A tear rolled down my cheek and I brushed it off, vainly trying to forget the truth.

I composed myself and went to the car. It was time to go.

The next morning, I counted the rabbits on the way back to the island’s tiny airport, the way I had with Mum and Dad when I was little. As we flew north over the southern highlands, I looked out and I knew. I’d never go back now. The last of the morning mist rose over the mountains. I turned my head and allowed myself to cry one last time.