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Gommie

A woman called Gommie.

By Hannah ClarkPublished 4 years ago 4 min read
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'Gommie in the Garden'. A painting by my Pa and her husband, John Brown.

Gommie sits in her pink smock dress with her elbows resting upon the plastic Gerbera tablecloth. The early morning rays dance their way into the sunroom and she is laughing. There is half eaten toast, with far too much butter on it, real orange juice and music, always music. Now that I think about it, this memory seems distant, but it’s always one I go back to, or rather comes back to me.

I am unsure as to who the true inventor of the name 'Gommie' was, but it was one of the eldest grandchildren who couldn't pronounce Granny or Mummy, so saw it as a more sensible option to combine the two, thus deeming her Gommie. Her 16 grandchildren, some of whom are now 30, still call her that to this day. Sadly, Gommie is no longer with us, but I feel closer to her than ever before.

She was the type of woman who would pull-you-up for not speaking correctly, but would freely swear and laugh knowing that no-one would dare tell her otherwise. Her teeth were big, her hands fine, and she had an elegant assuredness about her that was uncommon. She was all-knowing, without being arrogant, honest without being rude. She was hilarious, without being funny and loud without being outspoken. The warmth she carried could only be described as warmth.

Gommie and Pa were always moving into the most beautiful houses in the 'best' suburbs. Visiting these homes as a child, my cousins and I were convinced they were indeed magical palaces. The rooms felt alive, filled with stories, treasures, crystal Tiffany apples, spooky golden mirrors and the old Grandfather clock.

They ended up settling in a small Queenslander style house located in Witta, Maleny. A hinterland adorned with rolling hills and envious views that appeared to belong in the English countryside, but was located on the east coast of Australia. It is quite a drive to visit, but it was and continues to be my most favourite place in the world. My family and I visit Pa often. He is the most wonderful man I have ever met. Never have I known two souls to be more in love then those of Gommie and Pa. After raising 5 children and 16 grandchildren, their love was as strong and simple as ever and I have many fond memories of them laughing and eating bacon and eggs together.

They both adored the arts. Coming from an artistic family- Pa, a painter and Gommie's mother a famous concert pianist- they would always be off to dramatic operas, exhibitions and music concerts. I too share this passion and largely attribute their influence as a reason I began pursuing a career in the arts.

Gommie always knew what truly mattered. I don’t know much about what she achieved in her life and have never really questioned or thought much about what she 'did'. It sounds awful, but that's the funny thing about Gommie. It wasn't what she did but who she was. There was such ease and simplicity to the way she lived. There was no hurrying need or forceful urgency to leave her mark on the world, no panicked desire to be remembered for doing extraordinary ‘things’. In the same natural and obvious way the sun is extraordinary for shining and the sky is so loved for being blue, she was extraordinarily loved for just being herself. You don’t miss what people have done for the world, the things they have built, or the movies they have made. You miss them for how they made you feel. It’s not about trying to be remembered. Gommie always knew this and that the true and only purpose of life was to enjoy it. The ups and downs of living often makes us lose sight of this, but I thank her for always bringing me back to what truly matters.

She died at the age of 75, from a rare blood disease. I don’t remember much about the few months leading up to her death and I am glad of this, as it was a slow and painful time. I do however have such a strong memory from the last time I saw her. We went up to Maleny to visit her and I remember she didn't say much but she smiled a lot. Her frail frame and sunken cheeks were strangers, but she still looked and felt like herself. I went to walk down the stairs to leave, but stopped to look up at her lying on the couch in the sun and will never forget the way she looked at me. She looked at me so calmly, so ready and with so much certainty that although I was scared for her to go, I knew that she was promising me she would always be there.

So whilst I miss her dearly, I find her love in Pa, in my mum, in my aunties and uncles, in my cousins and in myself. I see her in lemon trees, a fine house, green roof trimmings, a glass of milk with an ice cube in it, a plastic Gerbera tablecloth, a fluffy towel and a glass of real orange juice. I smell her in a home-grown garden, in lemony-soap. I hear her in the sound of the piano, in the tinkling of a bracelet, the memory of her laugh. She comes to me as the sunlight hits the corner of a deck, in the fading light of day and in the voice that tells me to 'keep going'. She is the feeling of being carried by something that can only be described as warmth.

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