THE CIRCUS TRAIN

Photo courtesy Nest In The Attic

My eyes are wet with tears as I stand over her frail body. Her face is peaceful and free of the pain that has been so noticeable of late.  I feel my throat constricting with the effort of keeping my emotions in check.  Is this tiny, thin creature the same woman I remember from childhood as a tower of strength?

Mum had phoned me earlier this morning and asked me to stop in on my way to the city to check on her mother, my "Grammy".  I had grudgingly agreed because she was insistent although it would mean I’d be late for my hair appointment.  It was terribly difficult to get a suitable spot at Ramon’s.

“Honestly Mum, you worry too much,” I had said.  “She’s as tough as old leather and will probably outlast me!”

I look through the door to the kitchen where long ago Grandma had taught me to cook the dishes my own family now loved.  So strong are the many happy memories of that room, I feel I can almost touch the woman and child I see in my mind’s eye.  When had the table become so low and the huge combustion stove so small?  Everything looks the same, just smaller and more faded.  Like the woman lying on the couch.

I am caught up in a web of nostalgia, remembering the good times I spent with my grandmother.  A train trip in those days was excitement enough but very often I got to top off the trip with something even more wonderful.  I remember best how she took me to the circus and the exhilaration I felt each time.  I amused myself for hours each day after those trips.

I played trapeze artist on the clothes line (“Stop swinging on the line Alex! You’ll break it.”), lion tamer with old Puss (until he got bored and wandered away) or tightrope walker on the rickety fence.  I even performed death-defying feats like jumping from the outhouse roof to the garage roof.

My grandparents’ house was home to me occasionally for short periods as I grew up, and I recall many happy hours poring over their old photos or searching the wardrobes for dress-ups.  My grandmother answered all my questions patiently and told me interesting stories about the various relatives and friends in the photos.  None had been lion tamers or ringmasters.

We also went to the city to see the Tintookies puppet show.  I suspect my love of the theatre started that day.  My mother couldn’t afford such things, yet because of Grandma’s generosity I never missed out.  She always had a few pennies for me to take home to put in my piggy bank too.  A lively, humorous woman, she had taken me to the Ekka*, bought me sample bags and strawberry ice creams and, one year, kangaroo tail soup!  I had always trailed happily around the craft exhibits with her until it was time to go.

Why hadn’t I noticed how frail she was becoming?  I feel the tears coursing down my cheeks.  I can never make amends for the lost years, years I was too wrapped up in my own life to worry about hers.

Memories crowd in on me and guiltily I recall how she comforted me when I had nightmares, allowing me to climb into her side of the high bed she shared with Grandad.  I had felt safe there. No kidnappers could find me in that bed!

I look again at her lined face, at the veins showing through her almost translucent skin.  I gently push the wispy, grey curls away from her temple.  I smile, remembering the day she swore the fruit sherbet I insisted on prescribing had, indeed, rid her of that terrible migraine.  I was eight and for years believed I had discovered a cure for headaches.

Those days will never return and I feel a profound sense of loss.  I wish I had been more observant, visited more often; just been there for her.  I wonder if my own children will neglect me in the same manner.  I choke back a sob at the thought and the shape on the lounge stirs.  Faded, cornflower-blue eyes turn toward me, hugely magnified by the thick lenses.

“Is that you Alex? I didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing here?” she asks, knocking her glasses aside as she rubs her eyes.  Her voice is thin and reedy as I help her struggle to a sitting position and sit the spectacles back on her face.

“Yes Grammy, it’s me.  I’ve… I’ve come to take you to the circus!” 

Behind the thick glasses a spark of the woman she used to be flashes and a mischievous smile plays on her lips.

“What time does the train leave?” she asks, echoing one of my constant childhood questions, as she opens her arms to me for our customary hug.

SMG © 2006