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Kathy Prokhovnik

~ Sydney snaps: what's behind what's around you

Kathy Prokhovnik

Category Archives: Fifty words

Fifty words for fifty days.

Fifty words for one day

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9 October 2020

Miss you already, my fifty word habit. One last kiss as I say goodbye to you, slumped on the couch in your tight party clothes before being hustled out the door by the designated driver, poured onto the back seat and driven deep into the night on dark, rain-soaked streets.

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Fifty words for two days

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8 October 2020

The seeds we germinated, the trees we planted are no longer ours. They flourish – I hope – in that garden we built from a paddock of kikuyu. The garden beds are tended by other people now – I hear – and they live in the house that we built. It shelters others now.

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Fifty words for three days

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7 October 2020

The children are asleep. The tumult and the shouting have died, but that anthem is awakened in my mind. The only one I would sing at school assembly, avoiding saying g-o-d, yet loving the swell of the music and emotion. Contrite. That’s a word you don’t often hear these days.

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Fifty words for four days

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6 October 2020

My father’s favourite phrase – family motto even – was ‘Sufficient is enough’. While there was no arguing with its assertion of synonymity, I always found its lack of breadth of vision disturbing. Today I would rather quote another phrase that my father liked using: ‘You can’t be unlucky all the time’.

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Fifty words for five days: night-time

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5 October 2020

A moth is stuck in my room, veering towards the window then lurching away. Can’t you hear the wind calling you moth? Can’t you hear the trees shaking, the air whipping its way along the street? Don’t you want to leave this room and be carried on the calling wind?

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Fifty words for five days

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5 October 2020

A kookaburra sitting on a mound of dirt watches me, as I watch it through my kitchen window. Yesterday glossy black cockatoos watched us as we watched them, then a tawny frogmouth. Hard for us to spot it, silent as a branch; easy for it to spot the lumbering humans.

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Fifty words for six days

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4 October 2020

As we come down the hill our guide stops us. He can hear sacred kingfishers. He points. ‘Two pairs. Fighting for territory.’ Now we see their small bodies darting rapid rings around one big old tree. ‘It takes 180 years for a tree to develop nesting holes,’ our guide says.

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Fifty words for seven days

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3 October 2020

From the top of the hill I see sea haze blurring over the water. Then Bombo Beach is on my left and I try to catch glimpses as I rush past with the traffic, of its greens and blues I have no names for, solid colours that shape-shift the waves.

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Fifty words for eight days

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2 October 2020

A chance sighting of a bank of cyclamens, a crowd of pink in deep shade on the twisting road between Sapri and the Greek ruins at Ascea, returns to me now. I won’t tell the cyclamen in its windowbox about its wild Italian cousins, for fear it will lose heart.

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Fifty words for nine days

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1 October 2020

Amongst my mother’s things I find an envelope of photos for me. One is of a small girl, a pigeon perched on her head. Trafalgar Square, 1962, and the pigeons were famous then. She holds her hands out in anxious excitement. My hands. I almost remember that jacket, that smile.

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