Australian children’s book author, illustrator and visual storyteller. I weave magic, creativity and fun into all I do.
What happens when the day arrives.
The one we dread with fear.
The moment in which you’re called back home.
Somewhere far from here.
Perhaps you said,
warmness in your eyes.
You’ll find a park bench,
and chat about your lives.
That time has since come to pass.
Where you’re needed elsewhere now.
So until we meet again once more.
I’ll find you in the little hearts.
The sunsets and the rain.
The butterflies and the stars,
and collect them all the same.
And when it comes my time,
I’ll have plenty left to share.
I’ll find that park bench,
and I know I’ll meet you there.
I grabbed my noise-cancelling headphones, my well-loved picnic blanket and cosied under my favourite tree outside our townhouse. Despite being the intersection of three relatively busy roads, the wide nature strip was more like a condensed park with two large trees and a bench.
Once you were under the leafy canopy, the world slips away, and it was one of my go-to places to write that was convenient and accessible.
I was determined to finish this poem. Which felt stuck, something wasn’t sitting right with it. Honestly, poetry is weird. I love it; it’s beautiful, odd, funny and can rip your heart out all at the same time.
Only a few words on a page can make you feel, and that’s impressive.
As a writer and chronic overthinker, poetry doesn’t come as naturally to me. I like to overexplain, I mean, we’re this far in, and I still haven’t gotten to the point of this whole story.
However, this poem is dedicated to someone special and deserves a short or somewhat long-winded summary of how it came about.
Years ago, after my Nan had gone through some health scares, surgeries and the passing of time, I asked what she thought happened when you die. I figured, as a staunch Irish catholic woman who dragged me to church most Sundays, who also lost many loved ones, including her husband, she’d describe the biblical version of heaven.
Instead, she surprised me with “I hadn’t really thought of it before”.
Honestly, that made me laugh.
I pushed a little more, eager to hear why she hadn’t given the supposed next stage of life after death a fleeting moment or what, at the very least, what it might look like.
She replied with, “a park bench”.
Describing a sweet reunion of her meeting with loved ones, catching up on the years gone by and enjoying being together once again.
Okay, now that was sweet. No fire or brimstone, angels or saints, just meeting on a simple park bench, wherever heaven may be.
Today marks the one-year anniversary of her passing. She was 92. I was only a year old when she took me into her home after my mum passed away. Her kindness was felt by all who had the honour of knowing her.
Under that tree, almost eleven months ago, I finished this poem. Once the last words had dried, I knew it was special. Not perfect, just straight from the heart.
Before I packed up my picnic blanket and moved back inside, to an eager doggo staring me down from my office window. I took a chance on finding a clover in the patches surrounding my writing spot. Luck struck me twice that day, first with my finished poem and secondly with a four-leaf clover.
“The luck of the Irish”, I could almost hear Nan say.
This poem is dedicated to her.
Save me a seat at the bench.
Lots of love,
Liv
