Monthly Archives: November 2011

The powers that be struck. A child had been called to the head’s office.

No longer the apple of his eye, the teacher frowned at the smiling child.

One question, “Why the writing on the wall?”

Without losing her smile, she replied, “Some things must be written. Have you read it?”

True, he’d seen the offence but hadn’t read the words.

It read, “My mummy no longer has cancer.”

The teacher had known of her family’s struggles while their mother was sick, “Promise you won’t write on walls again and I’ll go see the head.”

Her grin broadened, “I promise.”

Schools and students have permission to use this graphic for non-commercial, educational purposes.

“Are you sure it should be that colour?”

The five year old studied his drawing. His grass was coloured red, his sky green. The oddly shaped trees were blue of trunk, pink of leaf. The square sun shone bright blue.

“Look what the others have drawn. Do you see their colours?”

He looked at his neighbours’ drawings. All trees looked normal. All colours were ‘correct’.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you used real colours? Wouldn’t it be better if the trees looked like trees?”

The boy smiled, “If we were all meant to draw the same, God wouldn’t have made us different.”

“God didn’t make the grass red, nor the sky green and those hardly look like trees,” the teacher frowned.

“Why, miss, you passed each student and smiled, sometimes making a short comment. With me, you stopped and took in my picture. It made you think.”

“Pablo Picasso, you’ll be the death of me,” the teacher smiled.

Schools and students have permission to use this graphic for non-commercial, educational purposes.

The sound of the bugle in taps, the lowering of flags, the minute’s silence, then the sound of Reveille, I look at the faces gathered and wonder what thoughts they hold.

I remember the story of Great Uncle Ernie in 1916. A runner, a wrong direction given, a gunshot is heard. Somewhere in France he lies, unknown where.

Thoughts turn to my father in 1942, a soldier sent to Singapore. Surrender came. At war’s end he returned to love ones but suffered on.

The Ode of Remembrance is read.

The gathered chorus, “Lest we forget.”

“For Ernie and my dad,” I say quietly.

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Sweltering, blistering, summertime sizzling,

Beaches, surfing, the river,

Christmas for swimming, it’s time for the trimming,

It’s in winter we shiver.