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Kanga in my own little bubble |
When everything is out of the house (finally) I realise how different it looks without all of our junk taking up space everywhere. It actually seems clean for the first time I can remember. Pretty exhausted from lifting the bookshelves, tables and heavy boxes, I climb up the stairs, ready for my soft, welcoming bed to lie down on.
But as soon as I walk through the door, I see that all my stuff is gone. Bed. Dressing table. Desk. Cupboard. Everything except my billabong bag that I am going to take on the plane. I vaguely remember the repo men taking my stuff into their truck when I was helping mum with the kitchen utensil boxes.
Where am I going to sleep now?
Heading back downstairs, I see my mum and dad sitting on the floor together, leaning on the wall. I walked over and sat between them. All we did was sit there. It wasn’t like an awkward silence.
We just didn’t have anything to say.
At about seven thirty, dad heaved himself up from the ground, sighing and stretching his limbs out. We had all been sitting there for hours. He went around the corner to his and mums bedroom. Mum and I just stayed there, too comfortable to move.
Well that was until dad came back holding three big sleeping bags and three fluffy pillows. This got us moving. We both hauled ourselves up at same time, and went over to the left hand corner of the living room, where the sofa used to be, and where dad was setting out our makeshift beds.
“Come on girlies,” he called, laughing, “we have a big day tomorrow and you guys need your beauty sleep,” he winked then struggled into the green sleeping bag, closest to the wall.
I picked the orange one in the middle, my favourite colour, and my mum the blue one next to me. Soon we were all gently snoring, alone in our big empty house.
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