Erin Donohue
Slideshow
The jagged half-scenes of my memory. A slideshow of the
years I remember in a dusty, partly-blind way. And in there,
somehow, is the clearness of Nana’s lined face. Her smoky voice.
I let myself fall deep into the memory.
The house on Rimutaka Street, faded and grey in my mind.
But my cousins and siblings, unclouded. Their bikes.
Scooters. The wagon. The flat driveway,
lingering and reaching lovingly for the horizon.
Then, Nana and Grandad sitting in their armchairs every Sunday before noon.
I would tell myself they were waiting for us and sometimes I think they were.
Their faces vivid and alight when we walked in. The ritualistic wiping of hands
before holding the certificates. The rainbow of school portraits arched across the refrigerator.
Nana would order five scoops of chips when we only needed three.
Would rattle the jar at us if we didn’t take enough lollies.
How Grandad would turn the races up as we left.
Then, the same. Again and again, every week.
Somewhere in the mix, all the slides became only Nana.
Grandad frozen in picture frames on the mantelpiece. And this
is where I remember her best. Where I took care with every slide. Clasped it in my hand
as I left her new house. The powdery smell of her skin. The shuffle of her slippers on the carpet.
She asked me if I was well after everyone else had stopped asking.
Said well done when I finished a meal, even if it hadn’t been a struggle.
I remember the boxes of coke cans lining the cold garage. I remember she came to every dance
show, never forgot a birthday, an anniversary, an exam date and always, always phoned.
I remember how in her last weeks
she called out for my grandad and
finally, after all that time,
he was there.
Erin Donohue is a Wellington-based writer and editor. Her first novel Because Everything Is Right But Everything Is Wrong was published in 2017 by Escalator Press. She is currently working on writing more poetry and finding a home for her second novel.