Melancholy; Miss.

I sit alone in my shoe box flat that is divided into squares of varying sizes, beside a laneway that collects syringes and other secrets and listen to the rain drum a staccato melody on my tin roof. There are no rainbows on my wall today although the sun catchers are ready, but the rhythm of the rain is soothing and calming. I hear the toaster pop and the jug click to signal that breakfast is ready. As I butter my toast I ponder the changing patterns of rain as similar to me as the changing patterns of my life. I eat my solitary breakfast slowly, one piece of toast with Vegemite™ because I’m watching my weight, one cup of coffee, white with no sugar because any more makes me twitchy and one glass of orange juice, for the vitamin C. Then I automatically reach for my pills. They are not there. I panic for a moment until I realise I longer need them; I’m better now, at least according to the psychiatrist who manages my mental health. I breathe deeply, counting slowly, 1… 2… 3… 4… 5 as I breathe in and out. Once my panic has stopped I’m able to continue with breakfast. 1

I hear the put-put of the postman on his motorbike. He sounds close but I know it will be at least an hour before he arrives at my place. Three doors from me he parks his bike and goes in for a coffee and some comfort. The widow Alojzy doesn’t seem to mind that the neighbourhood knows her business but she keeps her blinds shut fast anyway until the postman, whistling, gets back on his bike and resumes his rounds.2

The lace curtains across the road twitch and I know that Mrs Johnson is watching for the postman too. As soon as he passes her house she rushes to the mailbox and opens it; sometimes she checks the mailbox three or four times a day. There are never any letters for her, just as there are no letters for me, only bills and circulars. Rumour has it that she is waiting for her son to write. He lives in America and is something important in marketing. She lives in hope that he will give up his fast life and return to her. I think that hope is disappearing faster than the pink hair dye she uses to cover the grey. I smile to myself thinking she’d do better to take up knitting. 3

I knit; it keeps my hands busy but I also lose concentration quickly; I have all these half finished garments where I can’t figure out the pattern anymore and have abandoned.  4

On sunny days I ignore the debris of the laneway and sit in the front garden to knit.  I have a square of lawn and some geraniums that bloom pink and red all year round; colour surrounds me and I can feel liberated in the open. I knit in bright colours too, more in defiance of my lingering depression than in any hope that the garments will ever be worn or loved.  5

I have a collapsible chair that I brought in Go-Lo™ for $5.99 reduced from $12.00. It is weathered now and has faded to a dull grey but once it was a vibrant red. 6

Today my thoughts run in circles as I think about how rain used to be, how colours used to be and how life used to be. Everything, including me, has faded.7

It feels sad to be unemployed at forty-eight, but perhaps the rain has turned my thoughts melancholy. Dr. Dent seems to think I’ll be able to work again once I get over this slump. However, the slump is turning in a ditch, which could soon become a grave if I’m not careful.8

After Mrs Johnson has gone back inside for the second time, I decide I can’t stand the flat or my own company anymore. I put on my clear plastic coat and hat, grab my multicoloured umbrella, slide into red gumboots, sling my bag over my shoulder and stride boldly out into the rain. I make myself walk everyday, sometimes to the shop and back, which is less than twenty minutes for a round trip and sometimes when I’m feeling stronger I walk to the hospital and beyond. I prefer rain to sun; there are fewer people out and that means not so many people to pretend to smile at, or to stop me to ask how I’m feeling. 9

The trouble with living in a small neighbourhood of retirees is that mostly everyone knows my business, sometimes better than I know it myself. 10

I walk quickly with my head down and hands in pockets; rain splashes onto my exposed skin and into my gumboots, making my socks soggy.  I slow down as I walk past the hospital; having resided there for some time, it fascinates me. I wonder if they built it ugly to deter patients from lingering inside.  My children could have built better using Meccano™ and finger paint. It is a pile of oblong blocks, welded together with walkways that don’t protect from either the wind or rain. Worst of all, the bricks are a dull, dust colour that change to mud brown when it rains. The windows heaped on top of one another reflect back the light so that the interior is always dim and needs artificial lighting day and night. I guess it is like the buildings designed and built during the depression where function determined the form, except it is newer. I wonder if my function determines my form and if my weight increases, bordering on ‘obsess’ - where I weigh and measure everything twice and eat  chocolate while doing it - the phase before obesity, has anything to do with my lack of function.11

The tinny vibration of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ startles me out of my reverie and I fumble for the mobile that is buried in the bottom of my bag. Just before I find it, the ringing stops and I get the double beep of a message received; I have to get a longer ring before it goes to message bank, I think to myself for perhaps the hundredth time, knowing that as soon as the thought is gone the action will disappear too. 12

Jennifer’s exasperated voice comes through clearly. “Mum, where are you?” I hear and recall that she is visiting today and I had forgotten.  Quickly I fumble in her mobile number and wait breathlessly for her to answer. Sometimes she’s impatient with my forgetfulness; she instigated the mobile system and insisted that I carry it with me everywhere, so I do, but I don’t like it – it makes me feel watched.13

“Sorry darling, “ I say breathlessly as soon as she answers, “I went for a walk. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”14

“I’ll pick you up,” she responds, which is her way of saying I don’t have time to wait around.  15

“Okay, that would be nice. I’m outside the hospital. “ I reply defeated. We have had this argument too many times before and I never win, so now I concede gracefully.  I hear my car before I see it, Jennifer drives like she rides and frequently tries to lane spilt - drive between two cars to get to the front at traffic lights - when I’m a passenger; this leaves me white knuckled and gasping. It is not that she is a bad driver; it is more that she is used to riding a bike and the difference in attitude shows. I can still recall the day she told me she wanted to ride a bike. Every inch of her five foot one frame was bristling with anxiety. However, I know how sensible she is and didn’t raise any objections. She has been riding for years now and has never had an accident, ‘touch wood.’16

She had promised me a surprise today; I wonder idly what she has planned. 17

“Wool gathering again Mum!” she says smiling, as she opens the side door. I get in and kiss her on the cheek and we drive off. She refuses to tell me where we’re going despite my cajoling and we drive through streets I don’t recognize. Finally we turn into Gracie Street, North Melbourne and she parks, locks the car and waltzes in. I follow behind hesitantly. Once we are in the foyer she turns to me and says “Ta da! This is the surprise; I’ve bought you a dog. She’s been de-sexed, micro-chipped and immunized. All you have to do is name her, love her, register her and look after her. She was one of two dogs who were picked up at the same time, the keeper seems to think they are siblings but the other is snappy and nearly took my finger off. This one is nice, although she looks half starved. She has ears like aeroplane flaps, or directional radars and she’s brown and white. The workers seems to think she’s a Jack Russell cross but they are not sure what she’s been crossed with. Personally I think she’s been crossed with fence post, she is so skinny.” Jennifer stops speaking suddenly as if she’s just realised she’s babbling.  Then she says, “Anyway, if you don’t like her I’ll keep her at my place, until I can find a good home for her.” 18

I smile and hold her hand. “She sounds good. Let’s go and look.”19

On the way home the dog is quiet; I look inside the pet pack that we’d bought - along with bowls, lead, food and bed - every so often to see if she’s still alive.  When I look I see she’s curled into the smallest ball of dog I’ve ever seen; occasionally she wakes when I open the box and whimpers softly. For some strange reason this moves me more than if she had barked in welcome.20

The rain stops after we get home and I set up the bowls and bed in my postage stamp sized back yard. That was when we discovered that she had a voice, a loud voice. She whimpered, she howled, she scratched at the door with such ferocity I thought she would break the glass or rip out her nails. Finally in desperation I opened the door and let her in. Once she was inside the flat she seemed content. She explored the flat from end to end and made every space her own, even to the point of marking her territory in two places that I found later.21

Jennifer said her goodbyes and left. I ignored the dog for a while but when I went to sit on the couch, she sidled up beside me and whimpered. “Well you are quite the little Miss,” I said softly, patting her absently as I spoke. “That is it; you will have to be called Missy.” She looked up as if she recognized her name, as if she knew she had come home. Then she snuggled even closer, leaving a warm patch on my hip and in my heart. Just then the afternoon sun broke through the clouds, the sun-catchers got to work and both Missy and I were covered in rainbows. I rubbed my nose against hers and she lolled her tongue out in a dog smile; she looked so ridiculous with ears and tongue sticking out that I laughed. This melted something inside me and my melancholy disappeared like this morning’s rain; I smiled back. 22

It was a good beginning for both of us.23