02-21-2007, 10:19 PM
ME ?
Walking through the park on my way to work, I pause to admire a bag lady feeding the pigeons. A few have perched on her arms, a few in her lap, and she chatters with them while scattering seed. One bird tells another, more birds join, until finally, there are too many birds. Overwhelmed by flapping, clawing, pecking, and scratching birds; the old lady becomes a blurred confusion of feathers and beaks and claws and beady black eyes.
I have just told Mum a truth that will change the rest of my life. "Mum, are you ok?" I ask. At the other end of the phone, I hear her lighter flick flick, a crackle of burning tobacco, a sharp inhalation, then a release of tension in a long, sighing exhale. "It's going to be ok. It's going to be ok. No matter what happens, we'll always love you," says Mum. "I know." "I have to go now, ok." "Go." "I'll pick you up tomorrow darling," click, then silence.
Lying on the couch, thumbing through a magazine, my ears prick to a familiar sound: the raspy exhaust note of Mum's car as it drives up my street. "Your Mum's here," says Pete, my flatmate, "she's out by her car, but she won't come in. Christ, she looked at me like I'm some kind of axe murderer." "Sorry," I reply while peering through the blinds; Mum is waiting by the car with a face like thunder. My stomach starts churning, my heart starts racing, and I want to run away, out the back door to anywhere but here. We drive to Bunbury in silence, it has been raining hard for a week; we rush by wet paddocks, full creeks, and fat cows. I can't get comfortable, I wriggle and fidget; with the seat, the radio, the air-conditioning, "Would-you-just-sit-still," demands Mum through clenched teeth. We are home now, Mum is on the opposite end of the couch from me, smoothing the black couch fabric with her left hand, cigarette in her right, her face lost in a layer of smoke. "When did you know? You know… that you were gay?" Mum asks. "I don't know. I thought you knew." "I suspected, but, then there was that girl…" "Mary?" "Yes." Sounds of Dad cooking come from the kitchen: pots rattle, knives chop, and pans sizzle - the everyday noise comforts the tense house. "Did you tell Dad?" I ask. "Yes." "And?"
"You have no idea how difficult this is for him, for someone of his generation." "And it's not difficult for me?" "Well, that's your choice." "No. The only choice I had, was to live the rest of my life a lie, or to tell the truth." The smells of pancetta and garlic frying mix with the kitchen clatter; Dad is cooking my favourite - Spaghetti Carbonara. A quiet man, Dad is most comfortable in the kitchen, he talks to us through his love of food. Nothing more is said, Mum and I set the table together, TV off, music on. Dad brings us our meals. He passes mine to me, this steaming, heaped bowl says for him: you are my only son, and right now I am mourning for the life you will not lead, the grandchildren I will probably never have, but, I love you and nothing you do will ever take that away. He avoids my eye but halfway through dinner I look at him, he has stopped eating, and a tear slips down the angles of his face, dropping into the last of his pasta. He says nothing, leans over and squeezes my hand.
As quickly as they came, the pigeons are gone, as if by some silent agreement they take to the air as one, flying up into the sky through the arching fig trees. Together, the old lady and me, we watch them fly, she catches my eye, and we both laugh.
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