Portrait of 39
a little story to celebrate my birthday
Portrait of 39
I woke to a kitchen full of love — hot pancakes, a sweet candle display, presents, handmade cards, a cake. Even the family clutter that littered the floor and benches seemed to hold me in a birthday embrace.
The night before I had switched off my alarm. Allowed myself to snooze a little. It was my birthday after all. Even if it was a school morning. My husband brought me a cup of french earl grey tea (if you haven’t tried it, you should), balanced it next to my stack of books on the bedside table. I had to hold my eyes open to receive it, the grogginess of sleep bitter and astringent, like a pot of tea with the leaves left in. I could hear the chink of china in the kitchen and the scuttle of feet on the floor boards. Birthday preparations were go.
Everyone had drawn me a card, a family tradition started years ago. My husband’s was a pencil sketch of our kitchen — love hearts dripping from the tap above the sink, plants trailing across the walls, a bird and a cat. His picture more realistic than you might imagine. Wait to you see the video.
My eldest daughter gave me a beautiful painting she had made of our favourite animal. How I adore it. My mother gathered me in a hug that felt like all my years in one. You should be so proud, she said, of your little family.
My husband left in the inky darkness for work and the kids and I opened the gifts waiting on the table. Imagine our surprise when we unwrapped a box and found three stick insects, a dozen stick insect eggs, and two large beetles. All alive. There were excited shouts and hands reaching in to hold and examine, and homes to be made for our new pets, and then the rush to get to school.
I want to say that I walked outside and into the day to celebrate. But I lingered. I love being home. And besides, there were the creatures to settle, new plants to pot, a cockatoo to feed, the breakfast to tidy. And the winter sun, which comes in low and steaming through the bay window and casts deep shadows on our walls, and radiates warmth all the way to my bones.
Eventually my youngest and I drove up to our local mountain for a walk. On the way I rang my husband to ask him about the large beetles, What were they? And he had told me that they were giant cockroaches, his voice steady, not a hint of laughter. Oh, I choked. And before I could reply he added, They live for twelve years. I wasn’t sure what to say.
*
Sylvia and I strolled above the tree-line, below steep columns, looking down at our city and the river through holes in the ragged grey clouds. We spotted rocks in the shape of a foot and a heart, a fern just like one at home, and a hidey hole for a snake. And listened to the layers of mountain sounds — the call of a Black currawong, the rumble of a car engine coming up the Pinnacle Rd, the gentle whoosh of the breeze, a steady dripping of moisture from the velvety-green moss on a boulder, the soft exhalations of our breath, and the beating of our hearts. I thought of my twin brother. It’s a day I miss him dearly. I do the math, it has been six years since I have seen him — the full embrace of each other, legs and arms, not just faces lit on a screen. He lives in Canada with his wife and two kids. I check the local Canadian time and make a plan to call him tomorrow morning.
*
On our way back we crossed a small stream. I stopped to scoop the gushing water in my hands, raised them to my lips, the cool clear liquid entering my body and quenching my want for this beautiful place. A place full of wonder and evolution. A place shaped by water, flowing always in a cycle of transformation — rushing down the sides of the mountain, to those larger bodies of water, the rivulet, the sea, and rising with the sun on a warm breeze, so that it may return, and fall as sweet rain on the cliffs. One whole lap of the biosphere.
And the celebrations continued with an overnight trip to Mount Field National Park on the weekend, and a walk across Mount Mawson Plateau. The children oscillating between I’m bored, why did we have to come on this walk? to This is the best day of my life! (when they discovered the mountain lakes were covered with sheets of ice). And a dreamy winter day exploring a small hamlet called Cygnet with my family.
Thank you for the lovely birthday wishes.
with love (and an extra year of wisdom),
Kate xx
You paint a glorious picture with your words. Happy belated birthday. Good luck with the cock roaches.