My mum and dad

My mum and my dad.

My dad comes yielding pliers and long-nosed tweezers. He patiently sits with me. He listens to me explain how the metal contraptions in my face are stuck and require extradition. He doesn’t flinch at my dramatic yelps as the pliers close on the silver bar running through my flesh, a concept he can’t understand why one would inflict upon oneself. Eviction successful, he rolls his eyes and smiles. The same procedure has been conducted countless times over numerous years. An unexpected side effect of my so-called self-expression. Once, I disappeared into my room and reappeared hours later with white painted eyebrows, long giraffe-like lashes and blue eyeliner swooping over the contours of my face. I completed this look with a long, black, velvet skirt, a chiffon slip dress atop and a matted white furred scarf. My feet ran down the stairs and I launched myself into the living room to find my dad burying himself into the sofa. I paraded in front of the television, flourishing the lengths of material hanging from me. Batting my decorated eyes and ensuring to dramatically raise my eyebrows in case their new colour was overlooked. I excitedly asked him what he thought of my new look.

“Bold,” he said.

“Very drag”. I beamed at him.

My mum welcomes life. At the end of our garden, she laboured away. In days warm and cold she strode down to the bottom of the garden brandishing a shovel clutched in her gloved hands, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She dug through the tough earth. Rocks and concrete scattered amongst the dirt. She piled high bags full of earth until satisfied with the crater she had made. My mum smoothed a tarpaulin sheet over the muddy curves. Pressing it into each dip and mound. She placed plants around the perimeter. Guarding, sheltering, sprouting. Water slowly fills the garden’s new trench. As seasons pass, my mum rushes into the living room, muddied gloves still on her hands and straw hat just slightly askew atop her firey hair. She ushers us out into the garden. Her hurried footsteps pace ahead of us all. Nipping and weaving throughout her green kingdom. Once we arrived, we all crouched and crooned our necks inquisitively toward the pond. The plants that once guarded the perimeter had now woven fluidly, becoming one with the pond. In the shade of an overhanging leafy inhabitant, the water seemed blurred and bubbled. Upon closer inspection, we recognised such bubbles to be frogspawn. Tiny, black, wriggling creatures encased in what can only be described as goo. My mum welcomes life.