Greville Street

I remember a lemon tree. Giant and laden.
I remember a hair treatment. Lemon leaves seeped in boiling water to make shining, lightened hair.
I remember a cousin who felt it needed more. Whole lemons vitamised with water would surely give her golden locks.
I remember picking tiny pieces of lemony flesh from the littlest, guinea-pig cousins hair for hours.
I remember laughing.
I remember boxed garden beds of lush greens.
I remember him blue-singleted with hose in hand.
I remember a sandy dog bouncing near by.
I remember smiling.
I remember the “money tree” with round shiny coin- like leaves as childhood currency.
I remember the paperbark tree out the front giving us dollar bills to complete our banking.
I remember the beauty shop laid out on the concrete front porch.
I remember happy chatter.
I remember radio race calls and television exercises.
I remember excitement and disappointment too.
I remember her “ta-da-da-daa” to the music with her bum in the air.
I remember knowing them.
I remember floral carpet with mattresses all in a row.
I remember cousin-y giggles under scratchy woollen blankets.
I remember epic breakfasts prepared intricately.
I remember strong tea from a pot and white bread toast.
I remember all of this as love…their pure acceptance and joy of us.
I remember lemons wrapped in newspaper in the hall cupboard across the way from a musky bathroom with a “St Kilda premiers” poster on the toilet door.
I remember vinyl dining chairs that stuck to your thighs.
I remember backyard celebrations and choking on a lolly too perfectly round.
I remember hot Christmas days around tables joined together with warm vegies and cool salads.
I remember everyone was welcome.
I remember Greville Street and I remember them.