The melancholic sting of nostalgia pangs near daily. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. My one of two possessions owned previously by my very-much-in-love Grandparents: The Lee Burr Parisian twilight-scape now overlooks my lounge room.
A glance toward it allows a flow of memory to lap at the cuff of my jeans – not flood me knee deep in a rising torrent. They come, the images of stained bottle glass french doors and the music of Mario Lanza.
The other possession I’ll get to another time. For now, I’ll just remember the bamboo suffocating their back fence. And baking. And that smell.
Written yesterday, 1st March 2016.