This poem by Teneale Lavender was first published in Westerly 68.2, and we’re thrilled to make it freely available for everyone to read here on the Editor’s Desk. The online republication of this work forms part of Westerly‘s effort to make First Nations writing more widely accessible, as outlined in our Statement on the Voice to Parliament here.
Photograph by Teneale Lavender.
Memories of a Tree
For Nan, forever etched in my heart and mind. With love.
Tree born.
Long,
Long,
Time ago.
Black Bean
Castanospermum Australe
The tree at Nan’s house.
She grew from the banks,
of the creek,
that ran through George St.
Dharawal nation.
Her roots strong.
So strong,
they broke through the concrete path.
A path that went,
Nowhere.
Those cracks,
big cracks.
They tried,
And tried,
to patch in vain.
But,
She couldn’t be.
Contained.
I used to count those ants,
Living in those cracks.
Over and over.
Self-soothing.
Until,
Nothing.
Gnarly lumps,
Perfect foot holds for small and nimble feet.
Scrambling up her trunk,
Escaping the chaos,
And the violence.
And the weight of,
Below.
Squinting eyes and dappled light,
Filtering through her brilliant folium.
An emerald promise of transportation, far away
Anywhere else,
But
Here.
Those seed pods of hers,
She dropped them,
For me?
They were ships to carry my secrets,
bobbing gently down the creek.
But,
where did they go?
If big rains came,
A violent rush.
Frantic.
Like, how I couldn’t wait to leave that place,
And never, ever
Ever.
Return.
Red and yellow flowers,
Shaped like peas.
A carpet of colour, in the summer.
Stained underfoot. Between toes.
The colour of,
Blood.
Benign shade.
Sweet, rotting smell of damp.
Reprieve,
On a hot day,
Shelter.
Parched skin, you were.
93 years of hard work.
Hard times.
Cracked and rough but,
A softness that comes with age.
My whole,
My haven.
Those piercing eyes,
Did they see it all?
The way you would call my name,
Hollering from the lean to.
Telling me it was time to go,
‘home’.
An ominous warning,
Of things to come.
Constant reminders,
Of
goodbye.
When you left me,
I visited that tree only once more.
The for-sale sign, a cruel end.
I could hardly bear that tree’s presence,
Still there,
Unwavering.
A sick joke.
The tree at Nan’s house,
Keeper of my secrets,
Holder of my trauma.
Now, 5 years,
Almost 6.
Time doesn’t stand still.
Magnolia grandiola.
A vineyard. Swallowed by a housing estate,
Suffocating,
A foreigner.
Yet,
she stands tall.
Strong. Like she is meant to be here?
Here on this invaded,
Stolen
Biripi country
Dappled sunlight, filtering through.
Warmth on skin,
Strong, smooth branches under foot.
I climb, up, up I go.
Less nimble, but, maybe, more balanced?
Stronger.
From the two children,
born from
Me.
A memory, a moment.
Dappled light,
Makes shadows.
Warmth against brown skin.
Squinting.
I look down.
My elder boy, looking up,
in awe.
He is,
So much of you.
Draws me back.
‘Can you teach me how to climb, mum?’
Unconditional love, here.
Now.
Staring up at me from,
below.
Black cockatoo,
A pair.
Always.
Flying overhead.
Strength and resilience.
And love,
Always love.
That tree, she was my safety,
keeper of secrets.
Shelter.
And holder of pain.
But,
Love.
So much,
Love.
That tree,
She was,
you.
Teneale Lavender was born on the lands of the Dharawal, south of Wollongong. Her ancestors come from Yuin Country, England and Ireland. She is an Indigenous Health and Culture Lecturer in Medicine at the University of New South Wales. She has worked in Indigenous health for many years, both in government and education roles, and is passionate about changing the deficit narrative of Indigenous health. She currently lives and cares for a patch of sacred ground on the lands of the Biripi with her family. She writes to express and to educate, but mostly to heal.