A farewell of sorts

She plugged her headphones into her ears and pressed the triangle on the touch screen of her iphone -

play.

The tinny intro to Slow Show by The National bounced around inside her skull.

You should probably listen to this song as you continue to read:

Ready?

OK. 

She plugged her headphones into her ears and pressed the triangle on the touch screen of her iphone
– play.

The tinny intro to Slow Show by The National bounced around inside her skull.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Slow Show… and she never realized how tricky it is to say Slow Show repeatedly. 








Slow. 

Show. 

Slow. Show. 


Slowshow.

I think you need to say it out loud three times to understand what I'm talking about. 

See? Tough, huh?

Anyway.

She was standing at the traffic lights, standing with her bags by her side, when a foggy memory passed through her brain:

And there she was, in her mind’s eye, in her one-bedroom apartment in Melbourne, listening to the song, listening to Slow Show, and dancing, alone. 

Wait... 

listen to the chorus of the song... 

"I want  to hurry home to you,

Put on a slow, dumb, show for you,

crack you up"

Memories pass, they overlap each other, you're never sure where one begins or ends, blurred scenes fading from one to another, interchangeable, and moulded ideas of yourself and your story.

Where was I? 

oh yeah

And there she was, in her mind's eye, driving to Ballarat and singing along, singing along to Slow Show as if it meant…

something.

She had wanted to get married to this song.

She wanted to marry this song.

She wanted…
























But that was 10 months ago.














And she wasn't 29 anymore.

"You know I dreamed about you

for 29 years

before I saw you"

The bing bom of the pedestrian crossing broke her reverie and she wheeled her well travelled suitcase across the way. 

                             

She could have sworn she’d forgotten something. She had packed, as per usual, in a hurry. Not because it was a spontaneous trip but because, life just seemed to get in the way of an organized packing schedule. And so, she was leaving, as per usual, a little under-prepared and slightly unfinished.

The traffic signals wore on. Bing bom, bing bom. This was the sound of her first week in Canada. She’d lost her credit card card in Taxco, her make-up bag in L.A., her worries in Tulum, her dignity in London,  and her first iphone in Nicaragua. And so when she arrived in Vancouver, Canada the aural scape of the city was her soundtrack. Bing bom. Broke, unemployed and sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a grimy hostel. She had been lost and lonely in Canada but at least the sun had been shining then. Now, the once steel-blue city, had turned to a smudgy grey-black. The charcoal-ness of Vancouver was only occasionally augmented by the brilliant red of the stopped traffic lights and their speckled reflections on the drenched-wet roads.

It was raining now. 


















It was always raining in Vancouver.

She reached the train station and boarded the train for the airport. She was headed home. Back to a place she’d run from 10 months earlier.

The skytrain pulled away from the station. Sometimes, you could look out over the snow peaked mountains as the train made it’s way downtown. It was a glorious relief and a validation that this city was… 












fine.

If you sigh audibly now you’ll understand how she felt about Vancouver.

But today the mountains were not out. Today the city had pulled a very typical, cruelly dull Vancouvean day and the fog and clouds obstructed the view.

And here she was on the train heading back to Australia. Back to Melbourne. And she was listening to music on her new iphone. It was music that used to make her

feel. 

Something. 

Once, her skin would tingle and her heart would explode, leaving a gaping bleeding hole in her chest. But now, she was reimagining them, making new memories from worn out, overused songs… and feelings. 

As she alighted the train at the airport, that’s when the intro to How to Make Gravy by Paul Kelly bounced around her skull.

You should definitely listen to this song while you continue to read:

And wait... 

for the twang of the slide guitar...

It always reminded her of home. This song.

Of hot Christmases with fish on the table and her cousin George’s laugh filling the room; It reminded her of her parents singing along not knowing the words but making them up anyway.

It was chardies in sun, literally prawns on the bbq and the nasal, wonderfully sweet hubbub of family conversation around her.

And then. She blinked at the wetness in her eyes. Was she crying? Aw gees. That was a bit rich, wasn’t it?

The last time she’d cried on a plane was when she’d left her friends Tim, Luky and Sophie after 5 excellent days in Indonesia together. As the plane took off she suddenly found tears streaming down her face. Perhaps it was the air pressure, but most likely she had cried back then because she knew in this moment something had to change.

Just listen...

...for a moment...

and wait...

for those drums...

She wasn’t crazy about her current job in Vancouver; she lived in what looked like a student dive basement suite; and it took a fair bit to get Canadians in the winter to go beyond polite and towards something that resembled friendship.

But Mexico had changed the colour of her eyes and even though she’d failed miserably at times, things were different. She was different. 

At least she hoped she was.

She’d met a boy who made her feel that things were possible – or at least he laughed at her jokes and she at his and that was enough for now. She had bought a warm Manatoba-winter coat, squeezed the hands of the people she was grateful to know in Vancouver and had had her first white Christmas.

She missed the heat and the beach and the way people swore for emphasis in everyday conversation. But she had etched an outline of a life in Vancouver. And like her ad-hoc packing job – it was as yet unfinished. 




















And so in a way she wasn’t heading home, she was leaving a home...


... of sorts.

The End