Now I hope that you've realized that I haven't been writing about Russia quite as much. I have told you that when I feel happy, I miss nowhere, and when I'm sad, I miss everywhere. This is just the way things work for me. Lots of things have happened that have shook things up (the meaning of that previous poem being one of them.) But i hope that you can bear with me. Ever since covid I've become more absorbed in my stories. I daresay God used covid to push me to write more. It must be true. It was one of the few constants I had and suddenly I found myself pouring adventurous spirits into my characters when I could hardly do that myself. Thankfully my imagination is wild and it just had me pulling through (ok, God pulled me through. Thankyou God. He had inspired me to write, and confirmed it near the end of 2019, saying "keep writing" through an excited, pregnant woman whose name I dont remember.) I still feel sometimes like it has left a few mental scars on me. There will be some odd children coming out of my gneration, particularly down south. Like during The Great Depression. Keep connected, and not through the flipping internet. Oh wait, I'm being tracked here, lol.

Ok, so let me just tell you, I've been writing, lots of stories of different types, and I'll share some with you now. 

P.S: there's this amazing things called copy and paste, but they're mine.

Ten-eyed Firework.

 

Eyes, hearts and guts.

Everyone has a story that deserves acceptance. Some have access to making the dream come true, others aren’t so lucky. Some will paint their story, tells it around a campfire or scribble it in the dust, never to be seen by the outside world. But we all have a story, easily appreciated, easily forgotten.

Francesca’s story should never be forgotten.

If she were writing this story, it would be punched out in braille on her typewriter, with the small dots you find on butter packages, toilet signs, on dollar bills. Because my friends Francesca was blind.

If she told this story it would be slightly different than the way I see it. But we all see with our hearts, and we all see something different.

I am the eyes of her best friend. She deserved that friendship too, all the attention and time together and loving care – every one of us does. I had always hoped she would see God, with her heart. I still do.

There came a day like any other. I recall sitting with my friends, Melvin and Amy. They are both truly incredible people, who also deserve a story. Perhaps someone else will write them, or I’ll write about them another time. But I know Francesca far better.

I met Melvin near the start of the year. My Mum has always said to be the friend to people who need one. Melvin needed a friend. We talked for a long, long time when we first met. He would show me a book of illusions he had – pictures with the capacity to tug us to the edge of our perception of the world, our little glass boxes. His laugh was strong and clear. He drew comics, long actions stories full of little pictures, quickly drawn with clever humour behind them. He is an excellent artist. We both like drawing.

One of his greatest prized possessions was his magic cards. He valued them more than gold, maybe more than diamonds. When he played with these cards, he would come out of his shell, confusing and dazzling everyone. Even the “popular” kids, who got along with hardly anyone. They would never know because a magician never reveals his secrets. Sometimes he’d tell me how they work; I couldn’t ever figure it out myself. I can’t tell you how he did it. A magician’s friend never reveals her secrets.

Amy was also my friend. She has a beautiful high-pitched voice. Sometimes I’d wish she’d use it for more beautiful songs. The words were ugly, sadly. She has her head so buried in fanfiction. I tried to pull her out of her bleak world, introduce her to the brighter side of life – the optimist I am- but she didn’t want to. Maybe someday. It takes a village to raise a child, so I suppose it will take more than just one friend.

My Dad and her mum went to university together, so we were sort of stuck together. Amy liked hugs, which was convenient because I do too.

Thanks to some teenagers in my school, I was accused of being in a relationship with both Melvin and Amy. They could at least pick one.

As our friendships deepened, we hung out almost every recess and lunch. We hardly left each others’ sides.

But one time I stood up to throw my rubbish away, and I saw this other girl. She needed a friend.

I hate prejudice and ignorance, but unfortunately I’ve been both these things myself.

She had dark brown curls which hung free, an afro she had never seen. She was leaning back on forth on the bench, chuckling jubilantly. In her hands, she held a walking stick, from which hung a jumble of keys and tags she shook. She found simple joy, even music – just in the jingle of her keys.

I wasn’t ready then.

But I felt a whisper, and urge to go talk to her, from God. I tried to ignore it, thinking of some excuse. It was out of my comfort zone, talking to a girl laughing on her own. Any excuse for going back to sitting with Melvin and Amy. They’ll be wondering where I was, I assured myself.

And so, the girl was left alone for another lunch.

 

Wisdom

That evening after school, I had such a bad headache, which I think lead to a stomach-ache.

So that evening I felt terribly sick and couldn’t detect why. God was trying to shake things up, He was. I woke up in the night, upset by the lonely girl and my stubbornness not to talk to her. I felt like a scaredy-cat. I wasn’t usually intimidated by special people. My life is full of special people. No offence at all. We are all different and it’s time people would just accept that.

The last couple of weeks I’d had my grandparents over. My Mum is from Canada, as are they. They were visiting, they stayed at our house for about a month. Sometimes I’d sneak to their bedroom at like 10 pm and chat for ages, and Grandma and I would share chocolate, those delicious m&m's in those chocolate squares. Grandpa would “share” his disgusting orange flavoured dark chocolate.

There are precious few nights when I can sneak into my grandparent’s bedroom in the evening and keep talking about life. My Grandma is very wise. Grandpa is also wise, in another way. I love them both so much. Someday, I'm going to go to Canada for a while. When I'm 16 I'd be old enough to be there with them. I’d tell Grandma my fears, and she’d listen. And she’d give advice that was just humble and extremely helpful.

So, when I woke in the middle of the night, I found Grandma. I told her about my headache. She asked if I’d been stressed or worried that day. I said that I was there was this special girl, and I felt I was supposed to be her friend, but I chickened out and ignored her – and God.

Grandma listened like she always does. She said I didn’t have to worry and didn’t have to put pressure on myself to be this amazing friend always there for her, some perfect role model. I could just be her friend, that’s all. She said if there were just ten people who would come along and say hi, then she wouldn’t be lonely.

She tells me these sorts of wise things often, like how almost anyone will trade security for freedom. Recently I’ve come to realise she’s right.

I fell asleep after this.

 

Boldness at Lockers

I didn’t know then that she is significantly older than me, technically an adult now.

I can remember one other event before I took this advice into practice, which was in English class. Almost every teenager has some ceremony attached to their locker. My friend Jasmine had all her stuff in neat, coloured folders. My friend Paris had an eccentric peppering of loose leaves and books.

My locker was somewhere in between the two. These days as I walk up to my locker, I need to find a way to compress an hour’s worth of chatter and bubbles into a minute, which is next to impossible. If I’m in a good mood - or a bad mood, I may say a little quick prayer in my head, like please don’t let me fail this Maths test, God, or thanks for reminding me, I almost forgot my drink bottle. If I’m in any mood between the two, I’ll probably forget. It’ll be something like -where did I put that English worksheet, or why is my phone in my lunchbox, or why is my calculator out of my pencil case?

In Melbourne, one girl near my locker had a peculiar habit of swearing at her locker. She always said she would drop out in year 10 and become a plumber. I hope she finds her passion.

Some people do nothing at their locker but get their books. I can hardly be so dull at my locker, it’s the only moment of free time between two lessons. It's the perfect time to chat with people or organise either bringing fish to school; or not bringing fish to school. Hopefully, we’ve managed to settle on the latter.

Francesca’s locker looked quite different. Everyone had two shelves on theirs in my school in Melbourne, a smaller one at the top and a larger one at the bottom. Some people put their books at the top and some people put theirs at the bottom. I didn’t carry a basketball to school - therefore my backpack didn’t need so much space, it went on top. Francesca’s locker had two noticeable things in it, her braille typewriter and her backpack. Everyone at my school was given a combination lock. Francesca had a padlock instead, it worked so much better for her. She could carry around her key on her walking stick and it was hard to lose.

She took longer to go to her locker. Longer than slackers. She also had a different timetable, which meant that she was going to her locker at different times from everyone else. One time she went to her locker in the middle of our English lesson. And like almost every other teenager, she was making a fuss at her locker. Either Margaret or Lisa – can’t remember who, both were her assistants – was with her, and Francesca was a bit distracted and wanted to talk to her assistant. She was quite loud as well and got easily distracted at her locker. For some reason, some teenagers in my class thought this was funny - you could hear her distinctly. However, so many teenagers act like that at their lockers, it’s just that no one notices because so many others are doing the same thing.

Cameron was sitting next to me; we were working in pairs. He was a good friend. I met him on the first day of school while I was still looking for friends, and I was sitting with Evelyn and Evelyn's Friend. Cameron is one of those boys that like hanging out with girls, not because he wants to draw their attention, just because he fits in more with girls, which is just fine. The teacher would often refer to their group as girls, and he’d get annoyed and say, “I’m male.” The same things would happen repeatedly. It never ceases to amaze me how people go in circles in their little stupid patterns without realising it. Cameron was that kind of guy, who was chatty, happy, bubbly, and not gay, and I’ll respect that. Let him be himself. He was truly a nice person. If only people wouldn't judge others in the first five seconds of meeting them.

As Francesca was finally organised and heading off to her next lesson, Cameron told me that Francesca was blind. I was surprised. Though it did explain a fair bit.

Francesca would often draw attention when she was at her locker. Some people are born to stand out. Our circumstances shape us more than we want to admit. There are a million things you can do, billions of things the world can do. Make yours count.

Don’t ever try to sneak past a blind person. It’s extremely rude, and they will feel betrayed if you’re caught. I can’t put a finger on why this seems connected. I might have tried to sneak past her a few times (dear Francesca, I am immensely sorry and promise I won’t ever try that trick on a blind person again unless there is a completely reasonable exception, which I doubt there will be.)

And they have great senses of hearing and touch and taste and smell, so keep that in mind.

One time when Francesca was going to her locker, we were in English again, analysing a movie (it's a perfect waste of time. Give me a book please.), and Francesca called out “Is that Wall-e?” in like the least obvious moment in the movie, there wasn’t at any scene, just the little in between. Either Eva whirred or Wall-e beeped, which she recognised as Wall-e immediately. I was impressed. She must have an incredible library of sounds in her mind, she can perfectly replicate a dog’s bark and beatboxing.

 

Hello, it’s Abigail.

And I just carried Grandma’s advice with me, and one day plucked up the courage to speak to her.

In the first few days that I knew her, whenever I walked up to her, my greeting would be the same.

“Hi Francesca, it’s Abigail.”

I realise that when I write emails to people I haven’t caught up within a while or people who had just given me their email, that tends to be my little hello.

Her face would light up, every corner would show flickers of pure joy, expect for her empty light blue eyes, which reminded me of marbles, or doll’s eyes. The fake eyes never blinked, they froze thoughtlessly, never revealing what was going on in the mind right behind them.

She’d be like, “Hi Abigail.” And she was so overjoyed to see me. Seeing involved touching my face sometimes, which I didn’t mind, it was so innocent anyway, and she for once had the right.

It wasn’t long before she learnt the sound of my voice, and I’d only need to say hi, and her voice would ring like a jubilant melody, “hi Abigail,” little bubbles fizzing underneath.

At first, I thought of my friendship with this happy girl as a sort of service for her, I wasn’t sure she’d be able to give back. It wasn’t long before I realised this was dumb. Anyone with a heart, with a soul - can colour a friendship.

My Dad had always said that everyone is a person worth getting to know. The Jews have saying in the Talmud says that anyone who saves a life is as if he saved an entire world. Francesca was an entire world. All of us secrets deep down that no other person is ever going to read, but Francesca was a person with many riches buried, many ideas springing forth, joy and ingenuity and pain. Many people were scared to get to know her, just because of her doll eyes and her untameable spirit, and we claim we don’t conform…

 

Carlton- the fun, the dreams, the tragedy.

Whether or not we want to admit it, I have a feeling we all have an imaginary friend. Not necessarily someone we spend all our time with, just a little role model you conjured in your head, or a celebrity crush. Maybe an actual imaginary friend, but there’s no shame in that either. Even though I was friends with Francesca, she had an imaginary friend she named Carlton.

I carefully tried to explain to her that Carlton was a whole team, not just a person. But she wasn’t convinced. But if you watch an AFL game with your eyes closed, it wouldn’t be far-fetched - if you didn’t already know there were two teams kicking a ball around – that there were cheering for two different superstars. Francesca went for this super cool guy called Carlton.

She would yell out “Carlton” sometimes when she was outside. Other teenagers do that too, they just generally pick different words to yell out. Hers were preferable, most of the time.

She kind of had a crush on him. I have a crush on an imaginary character too, Gilbert in “Anne of Green Gables” (I prefer the Gilbert in the tv show. Usually book are better, but the tv show isn’t from Anne’s perspective, who hates him until she loves him. He’s just cute the whole time.)

She would also describe her dreams to me, which were the most peculiar things. She might have only told me one, I’m not sure, but I remember one distinctly. It was about this superstar named Carlton and her, and they were riding on a rubber horse. (I used to have a rubber horse. It was bright red and jumpy. I had it when I was like five, but I still remember it. I used to grab its donkey-like ears and treat them like reins. I can almost feel the ears in my hands, it was like one of my favourite toys. But then we moved, or I grew out of it, I think it’s both, and we got rid of it, which was so sad.)

She described to me the bounciness of the ride and stuff like the breeze and different smells. But her dream was like a replicated feeling you’d carefully memorise with your eyes closed to focus on other things, not like my dreams. I fly in my dreams. And talk a lot.

Sometimes her imaginary crush was someone she would fantasize about, other items it seemed to me she though Carlton was real. It seemed serious at times, again and again I’d tried to explain to her that Carlton wasn’t a person, it was a football team, she couldn’t meet him. I hadn’t managed to convince her, and it was heartbreaking.

One time I felt so convinced that she didn’t understand what was going on in the real world - her crush on Carlton was no longer a celebrity crush, she was falling in love with him. One time I felt so overwhelmed by her supposed passion for this guy, who she met in her dreams, I ran away. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me. I don’t remember what time of day this was, but I didn’t want anyone to see me. I just got off a far as I could within the school property from people I knew. I was technically out of bounds, behind the year 9 area, where no one really hung out. Some other year nines were walking past me, a sobbing curled up girl sitting on the grass, sniffing. There were some things that Francesca just wouldn’t understand.

When people ask me what’s wrong, I either tell them it’s nothing, and walk away, sugar-coat its angrily, explain things slowly, or maybe just let it all out. When I pour it all out it tends to make others listening feel awkward - because I’m usually such a happy person, and they want me to calm down, but it’s hard to. When the year nines asked what was wrong, I just told them everything. It didn’t come out quite right, all the words came out in a rapid, raw jumble and so they just didn’t understand what was gnawing at my heart. For them it was just awkward.

And then they told me a story. It wasn’t always that Francesca was the odd one out in the school. Yes, she was blind from birth. But there used to be a boy at our school, also blind. Francesca and he were best friends, and they used the walk together on the oval. I was shocked to hear of this time where Francesca was so confident in her steps that she would go all the way out to the oval.

It was hard to convince Francesca to take a few steps the rubbish bin, yet alone all the way the oval on the other side of the school was unthinkable. I tried to imagine this world, where Francesca had a friend that understood her. There is a difference between empathy and sympathy - and as hard I tried to be Francesca’s close friend, I could never have more that empathy for her. The boy could have sympathy because he has gone through blindness himself.

Sometimes, I would ask Francesca if I could borrow her walking stick, just for a second. I would get up, close my eyes, and try to walk. It would never be the same, because I had seen the place before and didn’t have her experience as a “sighted” person, as Francesca would say. I would get this urge to open my eyes and I felt a lot more cautious to take a step, even with a stick to swipe across the ground to avoid bumping into something. Sometimes, I would open my eyes, I rely on them too much. But it’s not sympathy, because I’m not blind.

I’m pretty sure the boy that the year nines were talking about was a year level ahead of Francesca, and that’s why he moved. Or he might have gone to a school for the blind. Francesca would tell me about them, how some is that went there were blind from birth, some had acquired blindness, some having one dysfunctional eye. I wonder where the boy that they brought up was named Carlton, because apparently Carlton is also a last name. A lot of people down south are pretty AFL obsessed. “which team do you barrack for?”, and they’d assume you’d meant the AFL. It’s like our new “4 new cases in Whatever-State”, and we know what they are talking about. Maybe Carlton was a person.

 

Frustration

She did tend to swear, and I mean a lot of swearing, she even taught me a couple words - words that I’ve never needed to use.  I tried to convince her not to say these words, because their meanings aren’t too pretty, but it didn’t work. She had this twitchy disorder some people have, a greater urge to let out these building up emotions instead of burying them down. At least that’s the way I understand it.

The teacher would scold her often for yelling swear words, and it would make me wonder why often didn’t bother to tell other teens to watch their language.  It doesn’t seem fair. It seems she had to learn to not swear before she could swear, which doesn’t make much sense when other teenagers swear, especially since she was older than us (except for the teachers.) Perhaps her parents had asked them to do so.

One time I was sitting with Francesca and she swore. Mr Mastro (his full last name was Mastrolembo, but people just mispronouncing it or forgetting it. He was our English teacher and one of Francesca’s favourite teachers too. I suppose he had taught her at some point as well.) and Ms Sword (She was the school’s food tech teacher, and I was on her bad side. I’m rather clumsy and I would mess up the recipe and she’d look at me smugly and say I’d need to start it over, which was very annoying, especially when my cooking partner got annoyed with my clumsiness. I hated cooking for a while because of her.), well, both were on yard duty and were walking by when Francesca spat a horrid word out.

The teachers heard her and warned her not to say words like, that, or Abigail (me) wouldn’t hang out with her anymore. That didn’t happen, I kept being her friend and sitting with her. I didn’t enjoy her swearing, but I didn’t enjoy her company. I was a little more sincere when I asked her to stop though. I didn’t want the teacher to separate us, though I wasn’t sure whether they could. They took more care of Francesca than they did of the other teenagers.

 

Sight on fingertips - and tastebuds.

I found all these skills she had developed fascinating, but other people couldn’t get past the fact they she couldn’t see. This one girl, Ada, took pleasure in teasing Francesca. I was infuriated. Not as much as I would be now, I’m bolder than before.

But Francesca had her own way of standing up for herself. It didn’t involve backlashing unlike some peoples’ techniques, she just said something witty that there’s virtually no way to argue with.

One time Ada came up to Francesca and asked if she could see. She already knew the answer, the news of her blindness just spread in the school. Some people take pleasure in asking irrelevant question, especially if they know that answers to them. Because then they can’t be outsmarted. Except they can be. So, Ada asked Francesca if she could see, and Francesca said she could. This had Ada stumped.

“With your eyes?” she asked.

“No,” Francesca replied calmly, perhaps a little smug, “I see with my fingers.”

A glint shimmered in her cheeks, but her eyes remained empty. I could imagine Margaret telling her this assuredly, nurturing confidence in her. Francesca’s was very close to Margaret. Perhaps her parents had told her this. Francesca, blind from birth, would need this sort of comfort – even at a young age.

Francesca could see lots of things with her fingers. She knew her braille typewriter so well, sometimes I could hear Lisa tell her what phrase she would need to write next, and I could hear the loud, rapid click of the buttons as they punched holes into paper.

Francesca also made this piece of artwork, which was on the wall near her desk in the corner of the art room. It had also sorts of things glued to the picture, a labyrinth of different things to touch and explore. Cotton buds, pipe cleaners, glitter, all forming a unique, yet beautiful picture. Ordinary to the eyes, exquisite to your fingertips. Another beautiful form of art.

Francesca would often ask me what type of snack she had. We were outside, sitting on the bench just outside the year 7 area. A short gum tree hangs above, bright pink flowers peeping out of greenish-brown gumnuts. The sound of basketballs accompanies our chatter. Francesca fingers a zip-lock bag with cherry tomatoes in it.

“Are these grapes or cherry tomatoes?” she asked.

“Cherry tomatoes,” I answered.

She was immensely disappointed.

“I hate cherry tomatoes,” she spat.

She was one of those people who is obsessed with something for a bit and then it becomes old and revolting to bring up again.

Like my friend Tannika, bubbly, red-haired and bossy. If a new song was released, we’d need to hear it at least five times that day, and in a couple of months it was old and we wouldn’t hear it again. I’d ask her to play a song “Airplanes,”, which I was trying to understand. We were 30 seconds through and then she got sick of the song and went back to her new favourite, “Meant To Be”. “I don’t usually like country music,” She explained hurriedly, “but this is an exception.”

I like lots of different styles of music. Pop (if it’s not too whiny and soppy), rock, hip-hop, country, rap, pop-rock, techno (just don’t break my ears with too much shattered sound effects), you name it. Music is good, I’m just more about the motivation of the song, as I can get pretty picky when it comes to lyrics.

Or maybe she was one of those people who have parents that can’t keep up with your changing tastes, or your friends. “So, Mahalia and I-” I’d say, and I’d be interrupted by my Dad “who’s Mahalia?” and my answer is always “Mahalia is Mahalia”, or whoever it is. I make friends too quickly for Dad to keep up.

Sometimes Francesca would get so upset about her cherry tomatoes she would throw them on the ground. Out of touch, out of mind. The same went for banana peels and wood chips kicked out of the garden. Margaret or some of the other staff would tell her off for this, but it took a long time to convince her not to throw stuff onto the ground. Sometimes I’d try to coax her into getting up and throwing the rubbish away in the bin a few steps away from where we sat. She didn’t like to go that far at first. I assumed I had always been this way. Eventually I would pick up the banana peel and throw it away myself, because I didn’t want her to squash it under her feet, which she found fun (Margaret would tell her not to do that as well). Or I didn’t want people to make fun of a banana peel at her feet. Apart from that a banana peel on the floor isn’t exactly a pleasant view and it’s resolved easily.

Sometimes Francesca would ask me what the punnet of cherry tomatoes said. I would wonder why the brand would matter, but I’d answer “Driscoll’s” or sometimes “Perino’s”. It didn’t make sense to me, and I found it awkward. I often find it awkward to name things by their advertising names. Sometimes you pronounce it wrong or perhaps I’m afraid of miscommunicating. My brother is quite the opposite, sometimes he’d ask for the “Heinz ketchup”, and I’d answer, “tomato sauce.” Things only got worse when they decided to make Ed Sheerin face a tomato on the tomato sauce for a bit.

Sooner or later I worked out that Francesca could tell the difference between the different brands, and so she would ask in anticipation. Perhaps they have different farming techniques which changes things up a bit. This is probably what happens to the potatoes in Australia, they are hard, firm and take much longer to cook than the ones in Russia. It’s probably how much they are watered, or even just the better-quality soil in Russia. The Russians call the good soil “black”.

And Francesca had such sensitive tastebuds she could distinguish between Perino’s and Driscoll’s cherry tomatoes. If I remember correctly the Perino’s ones were better. She would also ask me what her meat pies said. “Brumby’s” were a clear favourite. If she found put her meat pie was from the specific bakery, it would make her day. She would make me nervous as she ate it. Because she couldn’t see the meat pie, the meat would hang precariously on the floppy pastry and I was afraid it would fall on her lap. I’d point this out occasionally when it looked like it was about to fall, but I soon learnt the meat pies are much stronger than they look. Not once do I remember a chunk falling off. Which goes to show that there is a bit of sanity to Australians considering meat pies street food.

 

Chicago

Soon enough, Francesca was over Carlton and found a new obsession in an imaginary character named “Chicago”, which seems ever more far-fetched as one person, considering it’s an entire American state. Though again, she might have got the idea of “Chicago” from a sports team based there, basketball or something.

 Another close friend of ours, Jasmine, was incredible at basketball and would train almost every afternoon. Her older brother is in Australia’s national wheelchair basketball team. Jasmine and I have a lot in common. We have both got brothers who are somewhat handicapped in our society, (my brother is autistic. Not a sickness, just such an extreme difference. Things don’t come quite as easy as for others), we’re both Christians, and we’re both a little odd - just those little quirks (we had quite different ones, but we’re overall bubbly), so we learned to accept each other. Jasmine was a good friend and I hope we can keep in touch, which is hard since she didn’t have a mobile phone and so she gave me her mum’s one. Her mum is a quite busy woman, I think she’d involved in counselling or something.  We desperately need to catch up and I’m hoping she finally has a mobile phone.

It’s possible that Jasmine’s fascination with basketball rubbed off on Francesca. It’s possible that she enjoyed the sound of the primary school children playing basketball because of her. I haven’t thought about it before, but maybe it was the reason “Chicago” came about. Or is that baseball?

Jasmine was also a good friend of Francesca. Jasmine and I got to know each because of her. Sometimes when I hung out with Francesca, she would ask me to go and find Jasmine for her. She was too nervous to go searching for her herself. So I would leave Francesca for a bit and go towards the Food Tech area, and holler:

“Jasmine, Francesca wants you.”

If I couldn’t find her, I’d ask around. There was always a bit of trouble with this because there were two Jasmines in our year level and at first, I had a hard time learning Jasmine’s last name, it was Yugoslavian, or Maltese I suppose. So at first Jasmine was Jasmine “with the glasses”. That’s another thing we had in common, come to think of it. Glasses.

Jasmine was a very good listener, which was exactly what Francesca needed. I can listen to people too, but not as well as Jasmine. She probably got that from her mum. Francesca would often try to imitate Jasmine earlier on when I wanted to know who she was asking for. She wasn’t bad at it. Make that pretty good, I’d do much worse. Jasmine had a soothing, caring voice. Except for when she was excited or chattering about a book or about God, then her voice got more excited.

And Francesca crafted another game, this time about Chicago. I preferred that game about Chicago, it has more rhythm to it. Francesca would yell “Chicago, Chicago,” in a loud, sing-song exuberant voice, then blow a humongous, hilarious raspberry. She was so insistent she got others to join in. When the game involved more than one person, we would yell “Chicago”, and she would blow one long raspberry on behalf of all of us. She even got Ada and her “friends” to play.

But Francesca’s chants just got better and better. The next one I remember her making up was about “Alvin and the chipmunks”. Their voices are immensely irritating. Thankfully, Francesca couldn’t imitate the chipmunks. I think those voice actors need special microphones. Francesca wouldn’t need one, if she tried hard enough.

And I cant quite tell you what her chant was like, but she would yell “Alvin and the chipmunks, Alvin and the chipmunks,” but this time it had more rhythm to it, even without raspberries. I would tell my friend Grace about Francesca’s originality and simple joys, and how much of a natural leader she was. My parents have known Grace’s parents for ages, longer than we’ve been alive. When we moved back to Melbourne from my first chapter of life in Russia, she was one of the first people to make friends with me. We had to get to know each other again, I didn’t remember her, I must confess. We would go to youth group together every week, get mistaken for sisters, play pranks on the kids – such as me speaking Russian and Grace speaking German, and us supposedly communicating in some mysterious language. Grace’s mum pointed out that Francesca probably liked the chipmunks’ voices because they were easy to recognise.

I realised her love for music, especially for the song “Firework”. Come to think of it, I can’t remember whether it was her who first brought up the song, or me. She would sing it loud too. She would get her plastic bag from her snack and sing “do you ever feel like a plastic bag?”  On “plastic bag”, she would change her voice to a more deflated tone as she slapped the blown-up bag in her hands, popping the balloon she’d made. I didn’t think that something as cheap, shallow, and modern as a plastic bag could be mentioned in a song. The way she altered the tone of her voice at “plastic bag” made me think she changed the song. Welcome to pop culture, where plastic bags are worthy of songs. Ada would tell me that that’s truly how the song goes. I didn’t believe her until I found the lyrics. Why would I believe her when she lies about who she is to Francesca’s face, just because she can? That was cruel.

Grace would often say that I didn’t know much pop culture. People still say that. Mostly I can’t be bothered to explore pop culture, so I just stick with my music. I know a lot of worship thanks to Grace and my friend Amara, and other people. One time at youth group I’m pretty sure I won a “guess the song” competition (the results were chaotic, because teenagers are chaotic. It’s a bit beside the point). That was pretty fun. If it were mainstream music stuff, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

Worship and Christian music are a different story. Well my friend is so tall, she could probably be taller than Katy Perry, maybe even with heels. That may be a slight exaggeration. I’m not sure. Amara is half Samoan, so I reckon that helps. I have a feeling she would a lot more a part of this story if she was a “normal-schooler”. She’s home-schooled. I knew her from athletics, which Francesca wouldn’t be too good at. I saw her playing sport once, bouncing a basketball with her teacher, Lisa. Javelin is another matter. Apparently home-schooling illegal in Germany. Funny, Grace and Amara got along so well for a few days. It’s a small world, after all. On the other hand, Mum needed meds for me when I was in her to grow big enough. I’m barely 1.6 metres now.

Chill, girl. I can write pages about virtually nothing. This isn’t waffle.

So, I needed the lyrics for the song. I wouldn’t muck around so much with the printer, unlike some teenagers who would print memes without permission. In colour. But they got a certain mount of money per term for printing, so it was their responsibility. One time I printed the lyrics of “Firework”, so I could memorise them. This wasn’t school related, so I felt self-conscious picking it up from the printer. Thankfully the printers weren’t at the front office as they are up here in Darwin. I planned out printing it alongside some of my schoolwork, so that no one would notice.

 But then something went terribly wrong with the plan, I think the paper ran out and so only the lyrics were left. Frantically I hid the page in a scattering of loose leaves accidentally printed by impatient teenagers and other stuff no one accepted. I was such a good student, and I didn’t want anyone asking why I printed “Firework”. I wouldn’t mind as much these days. Eventually I picked up the lyrics with my schoolwork, the song sandwiched into my work, carefully flicked into my laptop case. I brought it out to Francesca even though she couldn’t read it, so that I could learn the words and in turn teach them to her.

Francesca never learnt all the lyrics, but sometimes we would need to sing the song at the end of recces or lunch. She found it so hard to part with me then, sometimes we would have to sing “Firework”, and I’d give her plenty of hugs, and eventually she would get back to class. Sometimes Margaret or Lisa would need to come along and hurry her. We sung it for the sake of it, but she never seemed to learn all the lyrics. I wonder whether punching them into paper would have helped her learn them.  Maybe she just wanted to hear me sing.

 

Sighted People

A gleaming gold watch encompassed Francesca’s wrist. She leaned into it with a chuckle and pressed a button.

“The time is 4:45am,” it spoke in a monotonous, artificial voice. Francesca giggled.

“And this is for sighted people,” she explained “You turn the little knob here.”

Francesca turned the knob. The arrows behind the panel of glass lapped the clock.

“Turn it, “she insisted. So, I did. (Ok, that’s not exactly what happened, but I’m no robot.)

The watch was completely useless, apart from for her amusement. She would often press the button and listen to its voice or turn the little knob. What if she was listening to her watch to keep her company? And she didn’t even know what sight was, but she thought it had something to do with touch.

Touch was so important to the girl that if I stopped talking or reminding her I was there with a hand on her knee or my head on her shoulder, she would forget I was there. One time I was quiet (One time - it may sound right, but it’s not. I’m serious, for once. I can be quiet). I was enjoying sitting together, the sound of the basketballs in the background, and she thought I was gone. Or she thought Jasmine was gone - I can’t remember. If we’re being completely honest, it’s probably Jasmine.

“I wish I could see,” she once said. I thought about that often. Before bed, in worship, in the car. I thought about how Jesus had healed the blind, and how some people have been filled with the Holy Spirit overseas and God had done miracles through them (Melbourne is pretty asleep right now, that’s why I say overseas. If we’re talking about the Top End, that’s another story. Dad met a guy in Mataranka whose uncle or cousin, I think cousin – got risen from the dead.) I wanted to pray for Francesca, God wanted me to pray for her, but I was too shy. I realise now that I don’t need miracles to confirm God’s existence, and the “lack” thereof doesn’t prove the opposite.

I trust God because I can, and He totally deserves his ultimate position of God when I reflect on my life. Miracles, miracles everywhere. The stars, mountains and planets. Yet also in fingerprints, leaf patterns and cell structure. He creates it all, and if that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is. I pray because I’m filled with God’s love and care, not to I’m basing my faith in specific things. I try to remind myself I’m almost home, that things will become clearer soon. I heard this is a song, look up Steffany Gretzinger, if you’re interested. A few times I tried to tell her about how amazing Jesus was to me, how he loved her, as she is. I asked her if she wanted to know more, or something like that.

“No,” she answered, “I prefer Postman Pat.”

Man, that girl was obsessed with Postman Pat and his black-and-white cat, even though she didn’t know what “black and white” meant. But Postman Pat does have a pretty kind voice. I hope she discovers more about God. I hope we all do. His love is limitless.

Francesca had no need for a watch (neither does God, by the way). Her assistants, parents, and the school bells were enough to stay on schedule with. Sort of. If five minutes late every time, (or so it seemed, she did take a while at her locker) counts as on time. Francesca also told me that she ate her breakfast in the car on the way. I know that’s a bit random but I often think of that as running behind schedule (as in, when I’m not quick enough to get ready,  I snatch some toast into the front seat on the way to school). I tell you this now because I don’t have much left to tell you.

 

“When I grow up,” she told me dreamily. “I want to be a barista.”

My Dad said that sounded like a job she would be good at. The sound of the froth, the smell or the coffee. Once she learned, she would be so good at it. She can play piano better than I can type (Actually, way better. You should see the pre-edited version on this story, see if you can make out English), for crying out loud, she’s cotton pickin’ (that’s Jasmine’s grandpa’s expression) amazing at it. I hope she chases her dream. And doesn’t ever, ever forget it. Just like the rest of us. Oh, and don’t be afraid to have a new dream. If you have more than one, just keep chasing the ones you can and the ones you don’t need as much will fade. Sometimes - would you believe it - all your dreams can work together in one big dream. For one bigger one. A much, much bigger dream.

 

Farewell, Francesca.

Francesca was never the best at explaining. As it was with Carlton. I thought I understood it then, that Carlton was imaginary, but now I’m having second guesses. Francesca was smarter than she looks, probably smarter than we’ll ever know. Her development has been slowed down in some areas, but it’s also increased in others. Apparently explaining wasn’t one of them.

Eventually I managed to put the pieces together, and I was horrified. Francesca was moving. I tried to imagined why this sounded uneventful coming from her. Her family’s voices would be there. I suppose she would have to ditch the few mental maps she had made of places, but if wouldn’t be as much if a difference. Why had it taken so long for her to tell me?

She was moving back to Italy. She had lived there until she was about five, or nine – I’m not great with numbers. I know what it’s like to move “back” to a place. Like when we came back to Australia three years ago, at the airport. August 31^st, 2017. That dreadful day. It’d one of the few dates I can remember. Oh, and that this story is due this Friday. We arrived in the airport, and all our friends, people I barely recognised, cried happily, “Welcome back!”, giving hugs. At first, I was happy. There were balloons. But honestly, I would have preferred to collapse into the arms of someone I truly knew, and weep. I would have gotten over my grief easier that way.  A part if me had died then and there wasn’t even a funeral.

 There was the little “honeymoon” phase, as Mum calls it – when everything seems so sweet. In a couple of months, I was over it, that welcome disgusted me. They just didn’t understand. Moving “back” to a place wasn’t easy. I didn’t know that place. My brother sort of understands but we moved for him (on second thoughts it was probably harder for him, even though I like Russia more than him). My sister doesn’t remember Russia– all she has left are stories. (Sure, she remembers. Grandpa’s cousin “remembers” seeing England “through mummy’s belly button”). My parents can see lots of changes in Australia. It’s safer, stricter, colder. I never knew the Australia beforehand, but I believe them.

“When are you moving?” I’d ask several times.

“Soon,” she would reassure me.

“Well, please ask your parents when you’re moving, ok?” I’d beg.

The next day I would get the same answer. So, I was afraid someday she would just be gone.

Sometimes I’d return to class all sentimental, convinced that that was it, my final goodbye. It became harder for me to leave for class than it was for Francesca. We’d sing “Firework” even more often, and there’d be plenty of hugs, and “Jesus loves you. Please remember that.” Or something like that. Sometimes I was so convinced she had left, I cried silently. But it was a false alarm. It was so embarrassing. Why couldn’t Francesca find out when she was leaving?

One time she was sick for almost a week, and again I thought she was gone. I asked the teachers and I found out she hadn’t, but they didn’t seem too certain when she was leaving - just “not yet”.

I think it was Lisa and Margret that finally made it clear. When we found out, I didn’t want her goodbye to be silent. Fireworks never go out that way. (by the way, she’s fine. She’s living a life in Italy. I’ve talked a couple times to her, but it’s hard to keep in touch since I can’t write to her. She even played piano for me over that phone. It was gorgeous.)

I beg poetic licence from this point. I’ll stick the facts but don’t take quotes for granted.

“We should organise a farewell party!” I suggested happily, in a sense. With that feeling that there should be a celebration, “who should we invite?”

Ok, imagine two minutes past in deep, silent thinking.

“Gemma, Cameron, Jasmine,” she said. It took ages to get the idea together.

“Anyone else?” I asked.

“Jasmine,” she answered after a pause, smiling.

 It got confusing, but I figured out who she wanted to invite. I was still nervous that there would be some people who didn’t turn up and she’d be disappointed.

“Well, let’s go find Jasmine and invite her to the party.” I said.

Things were changing. I’d seen her to the bathroom once before, but I’d never seen her walk so far. She gripped my hard tightly, swiping her walking stick across the ground. We walked steadily.

I kept telling her we were going to find Jasmine, it was fine. She seemed more eager to walk. Lots of people seemed surprised to see her up.

She happily hollered “Jasmine!” I joined in.

We found her and cried, “You’re invited to Francesca’s farewell party!” I’m not sure we managed to find Gemma and Cameron. I suppose I invited them myself for Francesca, since they were in my class. When Margaret and Lissa found out about it, they were overjoyed. I could tell they wanted to make this happen desperately. How was this going to happen?

“So, I’ll get the snacks, and you and Abigail can stay with Francesca,” Lisa said to Margaret.

“We’re having it at school?” I asked, confused.

“We’re the teachers” Margaret said, looking off into the distance, a little firmly but it was with good intentions. She smiled, “we can do what we want.”

Lisa was gone for a couple of hours, maybe not hours, (after all, the Coles was nearby. I walked past it on the way to school). But she was gone for a bit, and Margaret was doing something. Suddenly I oversaw helping Francesca to her locker. Just once. I was willing to try something new - especially since I yearned for this farewell party to happen. I kept reminding Francesca to focus, and get her stuff Margret came back, satisfied. Lisa was also back.

“Abigail was so quick helping Francesca to her locker,” Lisa remarked, surprised.

“She’s good,” Margret nodded solemnly, approvingly.

It was near the end of Food Tech. We had just finished cooking, and my dish came out in one piece, which was impressive. I was sitting with Cameron and Gemma. I think we were doing some boring work reflecting. Reflecting is always boring. Margaret steps into the room, through the door at the back of the music room.

“Can I grab Abigail, Cameron and Gemma?”

Ms Sword nodded with her plastered-on smile. Many teenagers liked Ms Sword. I often felt like she was a bit self-righteous. The main reason was probably her long blonde hair that she wore down when we had to wear ours up. It was such a relief to be out of boring Food Tech. I know some people like it, which makes sense – food is great. But I used to like maths (as long Ms Deb doesn’t go telling everyone about my story (she did that last time.) Maybe I could tell you why. But I’m not taking any chances.)

When I stepped into the Music room, Francesca was just finishing a music lesson with Ms Wilson. She was incredible. Just the teacher’s smile let me know her performance was astounding. Cameron and Gemma tagged along.

Together we set up a table, and Francesca sat nearby eagerly. Lisa got out Francesca’s favourite snacks – gummy bears, chocolate muffins, and salt and vinegar chips. Taste is more valuable to her. I have to agree with her about salt and vinegar chips, they’re delicious.

“Is anyone missing?” Margret asked.

“Jasmine.” I answered.

“Where is she?”

“I’m not sure. She’s in 7H.”

Everyone was a bit confused until Cameron suggested they were in some other class. Gemma and Cameron left to go get Jasmine. I stayed with Francesca. They soon came back with Jasmine. She gasped at the table of snacks and us waiting keenly (no doubt she was also happy to get out of class.)

Lisa took a photo of everyone together.

“Smile for the camera!” Margaret said cheerily to Francesca. She grinned, her mouth widening and her eyes still hollow to any expression.

“Silly girl,” Margaret drooled.

Francesca babbled about her snacks, insisting that everyone grab some.

“Have you noticed that Francesca doesn’t swear as much yet? She says sugar instead.” Margaret chirped.

“You taught her well,” Lisa smiled.

The room was filled with happy chatter and wishing luck. We were all together at las.t odd is an excellent way to bring people together. The bell rung but we stayed inside for lunch, telling stories. Listening to Francesca, asking her what she knew about Italy so far.

“Let’s sing Firework,” I suggested. Francesca brightened.

“Find it on youtube,” I suggested. Jasmine searched it up on Lisa’s phone. I sung along. I didn’t want to say goodbye to my dear friend, a Firework. The song echoes still.

Baby you’re a firework,

Come on let your colour burst,

Make ‘em go oh, oh, oh

You’re gonna leave ‘em all in awe.