An indian princess

I just wrote a six page letter to Kel, coz I've been a bad ass sister and sent one letter in two months. Owch. Made me feel sad when I realised that.

Dad also got around to ringing me back on Saturday after maybe two months of little to no contact. It's not even like he's a bad dad, or I'm a bad daughter. We just don't really keep in touch that much these days. And then when you do talk, you are all out of practice and it is hard work and reinforces the distance between you. I think we both asked each other "So what is happening up there" and "what is happening in Wellington?" about three times. Then he put my stepmum on.

So I got my eclectic rag tag collection of writing paper out tonight, some of which I have had for probably 15 years or so, like care bears and shit, and nestled in with it were some photos mum had picked out to put on a photo board for my 21st. I haven't had the heart to mix them up with my other childhood photos. I hate having my baby photos. But I don't want to give them to dad to look after either. One of the 21st photos is of me at primary school with the characteristically bad hair I've had for the better part of my life, and it is my school's book fair day, and we were to come dressed as a character from our favourite book. I'm dressed up like Tiger Lily, the indian princess out of Peter Pan.

This is what time does to you:

I am transported back to the kitchen of the home in Bethlehem, Tauranga where I grew up. Everything is huge, because I am small. Mum is standing over me assembling a costume and I am mortified because not only is my costume home made, it is made out of a brown paper rubbish bag. She is trimming the hem of the rubbish bag (skirt) to make it look like large tassles I guess. I have a dark brown corduroy dress on underneath, natural coloured ug boots and a patterned head dress with a red cardboard feather protruding upwards. The next day I am milling about with tinkerbells and sleeping beauties and snow whites and ballet tutus (I never did ballet) and sparkly ball gown type dresses and I am in a freakin rubbish bag. I carried this memory with me for a loooooooooooong time.

So some 13 or 14 years later mum dredges out these photos for my 21st and I find one of me walking along in this costume, and I'm just spellbound by how clever mum was and how great the costume is. And I think how fantastic that I wasn't one of the twenty or so sleeping beauties in the parade that day. And tonight looking at that photo I felt this huge pang and then put the group of photos back in their little sleeve and away with my archaic writing paper, to stumble upon again another day.