Why is your Mum making a boat?
Sometimes we don’t realise we are grieving. I wake up, I pack the lunches, I send them off to school, I go to work, I make pie, I sleep….I make pie, we sleep, we weave.
I make pie, the way my mum taught me and it is almost as good as talking to her. It is the same with weaving.
In the late desert afternoon, the minyma pampa call, kungka, can you finish my tjanpi? My mara are sore. We work side-by-side. We tell each other stories without speaking the words.
This is my story, my grandmothers and my great grandmothers. It is a gift from my uncles and aunties. It is the memories and unspoken folklore of family strength and melancholia.