INTRODUCTION CONTRIBUTORS ABOUT

Tide

Daisy Smith

The beach was on the coast east of Melbourne. We drove through the seaside suburbs until they became bush, and the road became gravel. It was the middle of spring. It was sunny, decently warm and with the windows down, the wind blew in the smell of wattle, their whirly branches covering weathered shacks. 

My mum and aunt chose this beach to scatter the ashes of my grandparents. They were taken here as children and, according to my twin sister, we scattered the ashes of my great uncle here. It was weird coming to a place to remember them and my brain not being able to connect any memories. To remedy that, I’m wearing my grandma’s sweater today. I haven’t worn it in a while. The sweater is an ugly kind of turquoise colour. It’s too green and bright to wear with anything I own, so it’s been at the back of my wardrobe since summer, and now winter has almost come and gone. 

The walk down was steep because the beach was just a bite out of a cliff. To my annoyance, I couldn’t keep the sand from being kicked into my shoes. The sand was fine, not like my preferred pebbly and crunchy sand. 

My grandma passed when I was almost twelve, only a few days after my grandpa. I think my grandparents and I were close, in the way that people in their 80s can be with someone as young as I was. But because I was so young—and therefore self-absorbed—I don’t remember a lot about my grandparents. What I was concerned with was playing and the adventure of going to Melbourne. For a while after their death, we had to go to Melbourne a lot to sort out their stuff, taking what we wanted and selling their house. My mum took a lot, filling our freshly renovated house with their things. It was all over my bedroom, the living room, bathroom and even the garden. I think it was her way of remembering them even if some of the furniture looked out of place. During this time, I put on a brave face around my mum. She was dealing with my brother’s and her own grief. I didn’t cry until I went back to school.  

Once it was all done and we sold the house, I started to forget their faces. My memory was made up by sparse sounds, images, and smells. The only concrete thing I had was their belongings. And then I moved out. 

The beach itself was small, its sand sloped down from the surrounding cliffs, making it cosy and private except for the couple sitting on the sand. It would be awkward to scatter our grandparents’ ashes in front of them, so we continued to the left. My mum and aunt led the way. We went to the edge of the beach, where the water met rocks instead of sand. I took off my shoes and we climbed over the rocks to a little cove. 

I only have my grandma’s sweater, a tortoiseshell comb (that I stole, sorry Mum) and a bronze crochet hook now. The hook sits in a pot with another ten-odd crochet hooks. I’d have to find it, much like her sweater at the back of my wardrobe. Now that I’ve got it on again, I unfold its turtleneck. Its tube covers my whole face, and it smells like mothballs. A distinct smell of my grandma’s walk-in wardrobe that I used to hide in during sardines. When I pull the turtleneck back down so I can write, it feels like a safety ring. Being warm and comfy, I can find a few memories for you. 

My grandpa had a table on the tile veranda in the backyard. Its legs were made from curled iron that held up a blue-grey stone slab on top. This is where the fish food lived. So, we would grab a pinch and hotfoot it over the short, spiky grass to the fishpond. My grandparents usually had fish in the pond for us to feed. It was just a small hole sealed with stone, but it was deep. I know this because I used to stick my little arm in to test it. When I pulled my arm out, it would be covered in the duckweed that sheltered the fish from prey. If the fish died, Grandma and Grandpa would wait till we came from our home in Tassie to buy more. We would go to this worn-down blue aquarium on the side of a highway. I’m not sure how many times we went there or the total count of fish we had bought over the course of my childhood, but it was probably too many.  

The bird seed lived in a bucket next to the fish food. We would toss a handful of seeds on the lawn to watch the spotted doves eat, or watch them chirping in the cute bird bath my grandparents had. I didn’t hear any spotted doves in Tassie—I guess they just weren’t as common—but that’s what made waking up to their call exciting. It promised a trip to Southland with Grandma and Grandpa where we would get fried rice, cookies and Build-A-Bears. We made our grandparents’ yard a five-star bird hotel with all the amenities. In hindsight, this is probably why we lost so many fish. Now, the stone table and bird bath live in my mum’s yard. 

I don’t remember the shape of what held the ashes, only that they were big, white and heavy. I stood on shore as my mum and brother waded into the shallow water. I wasn’t sure what to do. It was a pretty cove. The arms of the cliffs formed a tight U-shape, their embrace calming the water. The water being pulled in was a warm green that gently washed out the crevices and caves. It was wholly different from the blue and white waves rolling outside the cove. The water took the ashes my mum and brother gave it before I was passed my grandpa. The ashes were heavy and awkward to carry. It felt weird to grab them with my hand, so I tried tipping them to the side as best I could. There are no real instructions for scattering ashes. Taking your time and doing it slowly feels more romantic than unceremoniously dumping them, but the practicality of that is questionable when it’s windy. This meant that despite my best efforts and my mum’s instruction, some of my grandpa was blown back on me. Again, sorry Mum 

When we were small enough, my siblings, cousins and I used to take baths together at my grandparents’ house. One time, my two cousins, brother, twin sister and I were all in the bath. Even though we were small, the bath was small too, so we were back to back. The water climbed bit by bit as we piled in until it spilled over. My grandma had fish bath toys that we used to squirt water into each other's faces. My sister fell victim and while dodging, she slipped, her head falling into the water. When she emerged, blood dribbled down her chin. My grandma’s plug, a little metal pig, had cut a hole in her tongue. Pigs were her favourite animal. While my parents took my sister to the hospital, I stayed in the bath. When they got back, my dad, with my sister on his hip, found me sitting in the bath that had long gone cold and still pink with blood. I remember staring jealously at her sucking on an icy pole. Supposedly the doctors gave it to her, and I didn’t get one because I didn’t have a massive hole in my tongue. Suspicious, if you ask me. My mum, brother and sister still use that plug back home. 

This beach wouldn’t be very good for swimming. There were too many rocks in the water, and the waves were too rough. These were the kind of empty thoughts I had. There was nothing my brain could think about. No memory to conjure for this moment. My mum, aunt, cousin, brother and twin sister didn’t share anything. We were an awkward family like that. I think if anyone tried to say anything, there would be tears on the sand. 

You may have realised that none of these memories are actually of my grandparents. There are a few things I remember about them, like that my grandpa walked fast and my grandma liked to knit, but they aren’t really memories. I needed something tangible to keep these memories. So, when my mum asked if I wanted Grandma’s knitting stuff, I said yes. I wanted to learn the same skills she had, like baking and knitting. It made my mum proud and made me feel closer to my grandma. It was while I was trying to teach myself how to knit that I found her crochet kit. I gave crocheting a try, and I was pretty shit to begin with, but it was easier than knitting and my mum was still proud, so I kept the hook. I’ve made a few things from the wool in her knitting bag like a penguin, a dog and a hat for my cat Dobby. The hat doesn’t fit her. So far, I haven’t made anything as great as the rainbow cardigan Grandma made me. It had little smiley face buttons that I picked out. By the time I grew out of it, it had turned brown, and the pills were the length of my pinky. 

I’m glad that my mum took things like this sweater, the stone table, the bird bath, the pig plug and Grandma’s knitting bag. These things didn’t bring back my grandparents’ faces, but they brought back some of the excitement and nostalgia. They brought back an old self that loved her grandparents. 

It felt wrong to leave immediately. We hung around for a bit, watching the tide as it took the ashes over the rocks and out to sea. I looked at the cliffs, poking my head around some of the crevices, trying to absorb the place. I found a small white spider, so I took a photo. Then I thought that if I’m taking pictures of a spider, I should probably get one of the cove or I’ll forget what it looks like, much like how I forgot scattering my great uncle’s ashes.  

I have one photo of my grandma on my phone. It was taken on a Nintendo DS by my sister. In it, I'm talking happily, and my grandma is looking at the camera, her glasses down and a small smile on her face. I remember she loved me.