Veronica Foale

Author: Veronica Foale

  • Twelve Weeks

    Twelve short weeks after she died, an open home is held. Her house, opened for strangers to walk through and peer at, opening cupboards and turning on taps. A reluctant sale, twelve weeks doesn’t feel like long enough for the house to have sat empty grieving its occupant.

    Her life has been packed away in twelve weeks. Packed into boxes and crates, split and moved throughout the houses of those of us left. Where once furniture sat, empty space now presides. Walls are devoid of pictures; rooms of furniture. What was once a home is now just a house. It’s been stripped of it’s essence of home, nothing more than walls and flooring.

    I can’t feel her here anymore and that makes me sad.

    Today, strangers walk through her house, deciding whether or not they will buy it. They leave fingerprints on the glass and footprints on the ground. They poke at the garden and imagine all that this house could be with them living there. Then they will decide whether or not that is what they want.

    Yesterday I walked through the house trying to see it with strangers eyes.

    That light switch is dirty. The window needs washing. That tap is cracked. It needs another bedroom, the carpet is clean, the pantry is huge…

    And then I thought about it properly.

    I planted that tree. I weeded that garden. There is where I played, where we dug, worked, wrote. I woke up to this view, I watched the birds bathing from here. Here is where I lay with a book, here is where I slept. There are the marks left from my paintings on the wall. Here is where I lived. Here is where I brought my newborn children to visit. I sat here and ate. I curled up here and cried.

    More strangers will come after today.

    Looking. Touching. Poking.

    Soon, someone will offer to buy it. They will move in and place their things in the corners. They will sweep our ghosts out along with the dust and leave new memories littered across the floor.

    Our ending will be become their beginning.

    Twelve weeks does not seem like enough time to come to terms with that.

  • Peace

    As the baby falls asleep I run myself a bath. The sound of the pump thrums against the faint gurgles he makes in his pram. I wonder if I’m setting him up for more sleep issues, letting him fall asleep where he will, then content myself with the thought at least he is falling asleep for me. even if it isn’t in his cot.

    The bath finishes as Isaac closes his eyes. I hold my breath and quickly transfer him to his cot, swaddled and snuggled. He opens sleepy eyes to look at me and inside I panic. On the outside, I lift his blanket to his cheek and he snuggles down, content that he is safe. His eyes shut again and I turn and walk away.

    Through the lounge room I walk, shedding clothes and layers of myself. The children are asleep, the curtains are shut. No one here to see except for me and Nathan. I think he watches me walk away, but I don’t turn around. I’m intent on my bath.

    I flick my hair into a bun and turn the heater on. A quick check tells me that the water is the correct temperature.

    It’s been a busy weekend I think as I slide under the warm water. Amy turned three, I cried until I couldn’t breathe and I had a good time. All rolled up in two days.

    I cock my head to the side, listening for the sound of my children. Nothing. As it should be. I start to relax, even though I never stop listening.

    It’s been a long time since I had a bath. I have to gauge pain against the possibility of my body temperature rising causing nausea and the nausea generally wins hands down. This time I have enough anti-nausea tablets to see me through a temperature rise and the pain is enough that I need to soak.

    I open my book and start to read. The last time I read a book in the bath was when I was living with Nan. Memories assault me before I shut them out and absorb myself in my book.

    Slowly the bath water cools.

    As my feet start to get cold, I put my book down. I look around for the face washer I am certain I grabbed, only to find it sitting a few metres away. I grabbed it, I just didn’t leave it within reach. Stupid brain fog. In one swift movement I stand and water streams away. Goosebumps rise as I hurry to grab the face washer and my razor. With a breath of relief I sink myself back under the water, only to discover I’m still cold. I hesitate over running more hot water and then bring myself back to the present, where it’s my water and I’m the adult. I don’t need to ask permission as I turn on the tap.

    It’s a struggle, my hands are not as strong as they used to be. I have to use two hands, despite me being the person to tighten them last. If Nathan turns them off I’ve no hope of getting them on again alone.

    Warm again, I wash my face and then pick up my razor. I start at the bottom of my legs, shaving all the way up. I count bruises as I go. By the time I get to twenty, I give up. How many there are today doesn’t matter. New ones will just appear to replace the old.

    My mind wanders as I finish behind one knee and I cut myself. I can never shave my legs without cutting myself these days. I sink my leg back under the water, not caring anymore about bits I might have missed. This bath is meant to be about relaxation, not counting my flaws.

    I contemplate laying in the bath a little longer, but I can’t do it. Not now that I’ve shaved my legs. I stand and grab my towel. I walk out to the fireplace, ignoring the [tiny] mirror as I go. I’m relaxed. No need to stress myself out again with bad skin and bags under my eyes.

    It’s warm in front of the fire as I dry myself and get dressed.

    I must do this more often.

    But knowing me, I won’t. Baths are a treat. A side effect of the huge amounts of rain we’ve been having, I can afford to waste the water to soak myself.

    I give myself a shake to make sure everything is where it should be. My ankles have been slipping lately and they need a little wiggle to keep them in place. I stand in front of the fire for a few more moments before kissing Nathan and heading to bed with my book.

    10 minutes later, Isaac wakes for his first feed of the night. But, such is life.

  • Blogging is a public space

    It’s quiet over here. The silence and empty pages fill the room. Untouched, I haven’t yet gotten around to filling this space with words.

    Eventually it will become full. I’ll walk in here and hear a familiar babble of sounds. My fingers on the keyboard and my voice echoing quietly throughout. I’ll tell stories and maybe someone will stop by to listen to me, to read what I’ve got to say. I’m not sure how that makes me feel anymore.

    It used to be, once upon a time I blogged for myself, but also for my audience. I updated my blog often with amusing anecdotes and stories about the children. Journalling myself for them later.

    Now I find myself needing something for myself. To move away from my blog persona of Sleepless Nights and move towards myself, Veronica Foale.

    It scares me a little, putting my name out onto the Internet for anyone to find. Before this I enjoyed a thin veneer of anonymity. As my veneer grew ever thinner, my frustrations with the limits of my space there grew.

    I want somewhere, just for me.

    People say, write about whatever you want to write about, we’ll still read. Go silent, we’ll be here when you come back. Cry, we’ll hold your hand.

    It’s not as easy as all that though. Sleepless Nights, while not well known on the Internet, is well known within my family and in-laws alike. Sometimes I wonder how they see me, that blog persona who was very similar but also very different to who they saw in real life. Do they wonder where I hide my words when they’re with me? I hope not.

    I’m a writer. I need to write. I’m driven to write. I’ve got so many words burbling about inside of me, begging to be let free that I need to open the tap and let them out sometimes.

    I like Sleepless Nights.

    I also like Veronica Foale.

    And until I can work out how to mesh the two of them together, they’ll remain separate.

    I think I’m going to enjoy this.