I have seen many things. Many people. Many stories. I have held many hands; some gentle, some enraged. Some are riddled with sweat.
Regardless, I hold them all. I have to. Bound to this wooden frame, I have nowhere to go, nothing to do; oh, but so much to see. I’m grateful for my eyes. I especially love those days when the light seeps through me; I proudly showcase my colours on the wooden floor below me. Those days are lazy, quiet. Lonesome, but in a good way. You see, I’ve been opened and closed, slammed in people’s faces; my thorns prickling them, my vines suffocating them. This glass is my eyes, and now I will tell you what I see.
They were both tired, but neither could let it show. Charlotte and Ebony followed the well-trodden path of two silhouettes. The leader hiked with agility and speed, yet such nimble nature; careful not to tread on a blooming fern, or an ant carrying a broken leaf. She was the wind, her hair a trail of black fire carried along by a cool breeze.
Following Erica was a pale, skinny girl. Anne was deceiving; your eyes instantly snapped her like twigs at first sight, tore out her brittle straw hair. But then you blink and realise the dark eyes glaring at you, and the strength within her tells you she loves a good adventure.
Anne befriended Charlotte and Ebony, the two sisters, when they started at school the previous week. That weekend, she’d invited them over to play. They walked up the steps to her house in their matching mary janes, but never took a step further. They met with the start of the bushland and soon Erica, and soon found themselves walking amongst a miscellany of moss and manferns.
After a day of tiresome exploration and exhaustion, they’d arrived.
Their petticoats and pinafores were sweaty. But the view was worth it.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Anne breathed in the air. It healed her throat.
Nestled amongst manferns and moss, the girls looked out across Hobart.
“Welcome to Kunanyi” said Erica.
As Erica and Anne stood with pride, Charlotte and Ebony stood speechless, the only thing to move being their eyes – wide open, scanning the expanse below them.
Following the ascend of the seemingly endless trunks. The trees were huge.
They were beautiful.
Free.
The four of them stood in awe. Never had the sisters seen so much life. In England, tamed roses were imprisoned in ornate vases; roots cut off, they were drowning in water. Here, trees stretch their arms into the horizon, their roots exploring the soil; growing, curling.
Living.
In the few weeks since their migration, the sisters had seen more greenery than they had in their whole lives.
The two girls opened and closed me playfully, their spirits high until their mother entered the hallway, “My goodness!” said Mrs Thomas, “Look at you, covered in earth,” she smiled and the girls let out a breath of relief.
Dinner conversations are always the best. Through the hallway I can just see the end of the dining room table. I’ve longed to see more, but my rigid frame doesn’t allow me.
“So, what’d you do today?” I hear their mother say, her British accent still tough against the diphthong, but not unfamiliar.
“We climbed Kunanyi,” said Ebony casually. Charlotte explains to her mother,
“We climbed Mt. Wellington, but Kunyani is what Erica calls it.”
“Oh, I see. Well, that explains all the mud.”
“There wasn’t just mud though, there were these big fan-leafed plants called manferns, and moss too,”
“Yes, and the trees were huge!” says Ebony,
“They never ended…”
Ah, yes. Trees.
I remember.
I remember stretching my arms out into the horizon, looking over the land.
I remember being free. I remember breathing in that air, so pure.
I also remember the axes.
I remember falling.
I remember hitting the ground.
The forest went silent that day.
With the sun still rising, and frost apparent, the girls left the house, walking up the street to their new school. Soon they were accompanied by Anne and, with their feet walking in unison, they talked to each other, and made a note to observe everything else on the way.
In the distance, they see forest and bushland being destroyed; making way for simplistic, but rather ugly housing.
“They have no right to destroy the forest.” exclaimed Anne, defensively and quite bluntly.
“What about the manferns, the moss, and all the beautiful flowers?” asked Charlotte, remembering their introduction to the forest. Although the girls had climbed reasonably high – up to the springs on the mountain, the beauty of the forest spread further down, invading the closest houses. Now it stopped, a clear line of destruction separating the native wildlife and ecosystem from what would become residential living for Hobart’s increasing population.
“And what about the trees that never ended?” this was more an expression than it was a question, as Ebony knew that a part of the forest’s body had been amputated, and would never be able to recover. At least in her lifetime.
Another beautiful, lonesome day. With the girls left for school, their father at work as usual and their mother somewhere about the house, I listen to the peacefulness, the tranquility, the serenity, of silence. Of course, it’s not silent, but a humming of the earth that reminds me of how things used to be. I let my eyes wander, and outside the window I see a baby eucalyptus tree amongst the somewhat unkept, but relatively traditional front garden.
Its leaves minty, sage and round. Its branches like a baby lamb’s limbs; quivering in the wind. I smile, my frame squeaking and my stained glass window, with its mixture of flowers, beaming the brightest. This is the feeling of hope, and I hope that I will live to see this eucalyptus tree grow tall. A neverending kind of tall.
Words inspired by Stella Yu’s Ivy, Blackberry, Flamepea and Early Nancy (2022) by Stella Yu. POSCA markers and Fineliner photoshopped and printed on Rag Paper. Photo: Miriam Berkery.. View the full collection and artist's statement here.
