Skip to main content

Shadow of the Oaks

As soon as I saw it, I wished I hadn't.

 There was something deadly ominous about the darkened room. Bare wood floors, panelled wood walls, slices of weak light coming in through the long, autumnal windows. Funereal. I could hardly process it. 

 A sign.

 The room was empty, the service cancelled, the food and drink all dried up. Finished. 


It was our last day in New York, and we had returned to the Oak Room at The Plaza to toast Dad with a negroni. At this stage, when we knew he was fading, each negroni seemed like a communion. 

 The Plaza was one of the places him and mum had honeymooned. The last time we'd been in NYC, with kids in tow, we had blown a couple of hundred dollars on fancy burgers and lemonades for the kids, and champagne and wine with dinner for us. Spending mum and dad's trip gift money. 

 That was nearly 5 years earlier. We had taken our girl to look for Eloise, the little literary inhabitant of the Plaza Hotel. The doorman played along, telling us she had only just been downstairs earlier that day. The Oak Room was glowing, and through the windows we could see the lights coming on near the edge of Central Park as we stayed until dark.

 But this time, the darkened room stopped me in my tracks. I tried to resist the suggestion: he is dead, it's over. My bloke rushed into my headspace, saying, it's not closed, they're just doing renovations. This slim hope I held onto. Yes, rejuvenation, rebirth, it's not over.

 But there were no drinks to be had there, no toasts to good health, no negroni glowing warm red life over ice cubes. No 'cheers!' 

 An empty space and fading memories, though it sounds mournful and cliched. I could feel the absence. I felt melodramatic and panicked, as I fought against the inevitability.

 The next day we flew home, across the world, and too late, into it. The absence. 

 So, here's cheers to the balm, and to holding fast to the memories. That darkened wood room will remain like a coffin, sealed fast, until we return to New York and toast life and love in The Oak Room again.

Negronis, post Dad's farewell. Wattle Park Gardens, Melbourne.




 For the next trip, The Plaza Hotel, New York City 

An Infographic History of The Plaza Hotel
Labels:

Comments

  1. OneSmallLife5 May 2016 at 16:03

    Your writing is beautiful.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Anna Sublet 5 May 2016 at 17:04

      Thanks so much for your small and lovely comment! A little gift x

      Delete
  2. Claire7 May 2016 at 16:58

    I love your writing it's gorgeous.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Anna Sublet 7 May 2016 at 20:29

      Why thank you Claire, that is so kind of you to comment. Thanks for popping by!

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Widening Crack

The little flame in our forty-year-old wall furnace, the one that was supposed to hold tight, hang on and persist, was being extinguished, again and again. The pilot light had become unanchored, blown away and shut down. We were in lockdown, in a Melbourne winter.  We had been bunkered down in our homes on and off over the last two years. We had sat tight as we amassed days upon days of lockdown. At one stage, the summer came. We had mask-free beaches, we had open cinemas and bars.  But then, another Covid gust gutted us in 2021 and shut us back inside. Here we were, like a little pilot flame, buffeted and blown away but still holding out for better days. I would walk past the heater to find that the fan was blowing cold air into the small home. Each time we re-lit the pilot light, it didn’t last long before it was gone. Still, we kept holding onto hope as we sat through the days of rising case numbers and deaths. The gas technician (essential worker; exemption) was on his hands and kn
Post a Comment
Read more

The Waiting

Morning walk.  I wake too late to do my nature writing workshop so I decide to get out into nature instead! Head off at about 7 am, sustained on half a cup of hot water with lemon, a banana and a snack KitKat. Make it to the backbeach in time to see the gold coming up from behind the sand dunes, flowering light from the lighthouse. Tiny black and white wren on the rocks, the Plover family just foraging. A heavy gull takes off when I approach. It flies past me, sits and waits, and flies back as it senses I’m no danger. I take photos and slow-mo videos. I can hardly make out the flying birds as they rise into the dark clouds.  I keep stopping to look at things. At one point I lie with my back in the sand on the edge of the dunes. All around the waves continue coming in and the birds call. What would I do without this?  At the lighthouse, Galahs wheel and screech, their pink bellies exposed as they fly above me. A couple fall behind, screeching ‘wait for me, wait for me!’ Further around t
Post a Comment
Read more

Currawongs Spinning me Home

When the branches of Eucalyptus botryoides fall, as they often do, they root again and continue to grow. The tree is its own ecosystem. Currawongs, sleek black birds with their flash of white at the tail, build their nests, made of sticks and lined with soft material, high up in trees like this.  Some months ago, I stood in shock as arborists began to cut this tree on the next block down, over two days of vicious chain-sawing and woodchipping. I filmed the screaming tree, as it shuddered, shook and then gave way, limbs falling with the ‘thunk’ of a human body.  The tree danced a ballet for its dying and the currawongs lost one of their homes. Many love the currawong for its song, a mix of honey, with a note of uplift, a soaring whip almost, mellifluous on the updraft, ringing from up high. It sounds like an entreaty, a lament and an invitation. The onomatopoeic word, currawong , depicts the sound of their call.  Decades ago, for me these birds were synonymous with NSW, and it was a st
Post a Comment
Read more