Salvia Road

I have a memory of me walking up Salvia Road in a green scratchy jersey with a brown box bag and a short haircut that sat on my ears. It was early morning and it was cold and no matter how high I pulled up those white socks with patterned stitches, my legs were still cold. It makes sense though – you can wear as many long sleeve vests and T shirts as you can inside your uniform but if your legs are not covered, they will feel cold. The sun was still low and there was a wet mist (dew I think:) in the air and on the green lawns I passed. The dogs, still sleepy. The big tree overhanging the road in front on my aunt’s house and I would pick up my two cousins on the way to school. (S always had white bread with pink polony and butter.)

My mother would watch from the bottom of the road all the way until I reached my aunt’s house. I remember turning, straining my head to always look back at her.

My aunt’s house was small then, not built the way it is now and my uncle would berate me for not wearing pants like his daughters (he would die 10 years later, but I didn’t know it then). We would walk right to the top, cross the road and make a mental note to visit the lady who sold sweets on a wooden crate outside the long dark passage, after school.

Once in the passage I would stand on the tip toes of my new school shoes (and jump) to see the neighbour’s black dog/pool. I didn’t know I would visit that house years later, debating whether I loved the boy in there enough.

And if the buzzer rang, that long droning sound, we would run helter-pelter up the hill to make it for assembly.