A/CONF.213/18 las comunidades de migrantes en Montreal (Canadá) Se había concebido y puesto

An  ordinary  day.  Minding  Tom’s  three-­‐year-­‐old  grandson  together,  a  child  for  whom  I   would  fight  off  a  pride  of  hungry  lions.    

Tom  kicked  a  football  to  him.  I  let  him  have  a  little  go  at  holding  onto  the  buzzing   electric  mower  with  me  while  I  tidied  up  our  life.    

A  trip  to  the  theatre.  I  wore  a  grey  striped  dress.    

‘You  look  like  a  symphony  in  silver’,  Tom  said  as  we  leave  the  house.     Pos  re.  I  was  warm  all  over.    

The  play  was  Hamlet.  An  interactive  version.  Which  way  would  the  Danish  prince   jump?  It  was  up  to  the  audience  members  to  decide.  (I  was  defensive  on  Shakespeare’s   behalf.  Call  me  old-­‐fashioned,  but  why  mess  with  the  original  story?)    

Convincing  madness,  nevertheless.  

When  Ophelia  said,  ‘we  know  what  we  are,  but  know  not  what  we  may  be’,  I  thought   about  what  else  I  may  be  if  I  could  stop  being  shy.  Or  stop  worrying  about  being  shy.    

At  interval  a  photographer  from  the  Sunday  paper  asked  Tom  for  a  photo.     Tom  grabbed  me  by  the  waist  and  smiled  into  the  camera’s  lens.  Click  click.    

On  the  way  home  Tom’s  phone  beeped  repeatedly.  While  I  drove  he  was  busy  reading   his  text  messages.    

‘I  have  to  do  a  photo  shoot.  At  six.  In  the  morning’,  he  said.     So  early?  Those  cameras  again.    

We’d  been  together  for  ten  years.   We  were  home  by  eleven.  

Into  the  bedroom.   Then  this.  

We  need  to  talk,  he  said.  I’ve  decided  I  want  to  be  single  again.    

A  shock  of  scalding  heat  flushed  through  my  ribcage.  

The  air  was  sucked  out  of  my  lungs  and  then  my  heart  began  its  race  to  outrun  those   words.  Suddenly  I  was  not  standing  but  sitting.  On  the  bed  we  had  shared  for  a  decade.    

Oh,  I  said  to  the  red  rug  on  the  polished  floorboards.  Wow.  This  is  big,  I  told  my  knees  as   all  the  flesh  above  and  below  them  turns  to  liquid.  Stupid,  small  words.    

My  hands  clutched  at  the  blue  doona  cover,  trying  to  steady  my  torso  against  the   shuddering  force  of  that  heartbeat.  

When  I  spoke  again  there  was  so  little  air  in  my  lungs,  my  words  were  just  above  a   whisper.  It  was  someone  else’s  voice  speaking  these  words.  

Why?  

I  want  to  be  able  to  be  with  other  women.  I  don‘t  want  to  be  in  a  long-­term  relationship   with  just  one  person.  

Oh.  But.  Is  there  someone  else?   No.  There’s  no  one  else.     IS  there  someone  else?   No.  

It  didn’t  make  sense.     Have  there  been  others?  

Yes.  I  have  been  with  other  women.  But  there’s  no  one  in  particular.  I  don’t  want  to  be  in  a   relationship  any  more.  I’m  sorry.  

Finally  it  had  caught  me.    

All  those  years  of  tip-­‐toeing  around  it,  of  risk-­‐avoiding  and  safety-­‐net  securing,  of  what   if-­ing  and  better  not-­‐ing  and  rejecting  others  before  I  could  be  rejected,  of  withdrawing   and  giving  up  before  I’ve  even  tried,  of  choosing  only  those  who  I  thought  would  never   leave.    

Now  this.   Liquefaction.    

The  sudden  dissolving  of  all  that  was  once  solid.  Nothing  but  wet  grey  mud  inside  me,   around  me,  on  top  of  me.    

Fight  or  flight?   I  could  not  fight  this.  

I  hauled  myself  up,  every  particle  trembling,  and  escaped  the  room.  Into  the  next  room,   pacing  for  ten  long  seconds,  what  to  do,  where  to  go?  Out  again,  back  to  the  red  rug  room,   grabbed  my  mobile,  out  again,  down  the  hall,  into  the  lounge  room,  shaking  fingers   tapping  my  sister’s  number  onto  the  glowing  screen.  From  the  edge  of  the  couch  I   whispered  into  the  phone.  

Yoni  are  you  still  up?  Can  I  come  over?  

Back  down  the  hall,  into  the  red  rug  room.  Tom  was  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  bed,  head   down.  I  reached  up  to  grab  the  black  suitcase  on  top  of  the  wardrobe  but  it  was  so  high,   too  high,  and  my  treacherous  fingers  couldn’t  reach.  I  stretched  and  failed  and  failed  again.   Pathetic.  

Tom  left.  Went  to  another  room,  I  don’t  know  where.  The  other  end  of  the  house.  As  far   away  from  my  stretching,  shaking  hands  as  possible.  I  found  a  chair  and  placed  it  in  front   of  the  mirror  attached  to  the  wardrobe  door,  the  mirror  that  had  watched  us  sliding  in  and   out  of  each  other  for  so  many  years,  watched  us  liquefying  each  other  in  the  big  blue  bed.    

Clutching  at  the  suitcase  I  climbed  down  from  the  chair  and  scuttled  around  the  room   like  a  startled  insect.  I  was  grabbing  things  and  140hovelling  them  inside  in  fast-­‐motion,  a   cartoon  character  packing  a  cartoon  suitcase,  my  clothes  spilling  out  over  the  sides,  my   shaking  hands  struggling  with  the  zips.  

And  yet,  some  part  of  me  was  very  sensible.  Very  helpful.     Ticking  things  off  a  mental  list.    

– Take  ear-­‐plugs,  sleep  will  be  hard.     – And  an  eye-­‐mask.  

– Take  your  thyroid  pills,  you’ll  need  those.     – And  lanolin  for  dry  lips.    

– Take  hankies,  you  will  need  hankies.  

– Bathers  and  goggles,  you  will  need  to  swim.    

What  sort  of  a  strange  holiday  was  I  packing  for  here?     A  holiday  on  the  island  of  grief.    

I  zipped  up  the  suitcase  and  headed  for  the  door  and  I  was  out  and  almost  running  to   the  gate  with  the  suitcase  lurching  and  jerking  behind  me  and  now  I  was  at  the  car  and  I   pressed  the  blue  button  and  opened  the  door  and  threw  the  suitcase  across  and  fell  into   the  driver’s  seat.  

As  

The  Boys  disappeared  down  the  end  of  the  driveway   The  Father  walked  into  the  surf  

The  Lover  withdrew  his  love   and  I  was  alone.  

But  not  safe.  Not  now.  Not  yet.     Not  for  a  long  time.    

On  Etymology    

Two  further  definitions  of  the  word  shy:     – To  move  suddenly  in  fright  or  alarm.   – To  come  up  short,  insufficient,  less.