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GUNS, DEAD GOATS & MY BLACK HEART
3. Dead Goats As Gifts
cigarette smoke hung in the air of aunty Karen's loungeroom,
my grandfather was clicking his mouth, as he unwrapped long
strands of grey hair from the big sheets of Christmas paper, i
saw the silver wrapping fall away, nanny who was sitting beside
him, grabbed his bony old knee as the two big curly grey horns
appeared, Karen said "oh dad, it's lovely," mum hovered over to
stroke its hide in a loving way, my hand came quickly to my
mouth, as that long grey goat hair fell down over pop's knees,
the stuffed head suddenly crashed to one side, lolling with its
glass eyes, "geeze, he was a big one," click, my uncle brian &
cousin troy had shot it, so now it rolled out, so that its hair was
of some comfort to my grandfather's skin, like slipping into ugh
boots or wearing a fur coat, or believing that sheep's wool is
healthy or that leather allows the skin to breathe, then he got
hot & sweaty, the overhead fans rotating out over a december
christmas, stirring up all the smoke clouds & whisking them into
dissipation, my grandfather went onto the next parcel, shaking it
up around his head, his gold false teeth glinting, he knew that
there was ginger & chocolate nuts inside, the goat had been
dropped onto the lounge, onto its long old fur so that the smooth
tanned insides of skin were exposed, dale plonked down & almost
sat on it, "careful dale, you don't want to crack his horns off,"
pop said, as if dale might hurt the goat by doing so, christmas in
revesby being the time when all inanimate objects took on their
own warped spirituality, i knew that if any real spiritual entity
walked in at that time, the men would rush & get the guns with
the women urging them on, whatever might be standing at the
door, for example a goat or a reindeer, they would shoot it, wrap
it up & make a gift out of it, most likely for nanny or pop, if it
was jesus christ they wouldn't recognise him & would most likely
ring the cops, saying that a 'drug addict', a 'thief' or a 'dole cheat'
had just walked in, all along the loungeroom floor were these
goat rugs, flat & sweating with the opened presents resting
across their hides, the little coloured glass eyes & bob tails
sticking up out of one end, the heads standing upright, all horns
& horror as the main feature, the next year there was a row,
when my brother brendon, who was meant to be a vegetarian,
placed some fried rice with little pieces of prawn in it on his
plate, i ended up standing up & saying that they were not
celebrating the birthday of christ, but the murder of god, i
walked out, it was the last family christmas i tolerated, not only
was i an embarrassment, but i also noticed how quickly they all
clamped shut together like a fortress, my mother was sent out &
coldly enquired about my mental state, there were the whispers
of medication & 'she can't help herself,' five minutes later they
went back to eating & gazing into the still glass eyes of the goat
rugs, my emotions conveniently beyond their comprehension, in
their eyes, i was ready to be unwrapped & put away, like the
horns of dead goats, beneath the dying pine tree |
