My grandmother had the most marvellous collection of costume jewellery. Her most amazing pieces were actually real - precious rubies and sapphires set in over sized coral pieces to form out-there cocktail rings and broaches. When she passed, she left some of these precious ornamental pieces to my twin sister & I. For the most they sat in the bottom of boxes, not seeing the light of day, until 2012 rolled around, bringing with it the "statement necklace" trend. Costume jewellery at its finest, these champagne coloured glass gems, set in 6 petal flowers on large chain, is an eye catcher. Not one from my grandmother's collection, but reminding me of the very similar necklace I left back in Australia, wearing it makes me want to throw on a brightly patterned kaftan and sit by the pool with friends (as I imagined she would be doing if she were still here)
There are people we grieve twice in a lifetime. Once for who they were. And once for who we were never allowed to know. My father is one of them. When I was a child, my mother told me he was a paedophile. She didn’t whisper it. She didn’t hesitate. She said it plainly, as fact. As warning. As control. When we misbehaved, she would drop us at the greyhound station and force us to spend sleepless weekends with him. I remember the noise of the station. The way my stomach would knot. The terror that would sit in my chest at night when the lights went out. I was absolutely terrified to sleep. He was a workaholic. Twelve-hour days. Long hours. Absence disguised as provision. He would leave cash on the bench, stockpiles of food in the fridge, and the television on - a wild luxury I couldn’t enjoy because fear had already moved in. At home with my mother, we weren’t allowed a TV at all. Looking back now, my father was unemotional, but never unkind. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer hims...


