Creative Writing Essay

She was a dreamer, he said, and in the way he said those words, you understood he loved her, in a yellowed way like pages of an old book from primary school. He couldn’t look you in the eye as he spoke, so you wonder if there was some sadness there, something that was difficult to feel. When he looks back at you his eyes are shiny pools of blue. With eyes like that he’d always look young, even though his skin now drifted below his jawline and his hair was whiter than his teeth. The sea was in his eyes, and she was the sea.These days he remembered her by the smell of the washing powder she’d always used for sheets and clothes and towels. When she had done it, they had a washing machine that didn’t spin. She would fish the clothes out of the water and feed them through the wringer, humming to herself as she worked. They would only do the washing on a fine day, and on washing day everyone in the house was on “rain watch”, and if an unexpected shower came, shrieks could be heard through the house and multiple family members would race to take the washing off the line before it got too wet.These days, it was just him in the house, and the wringer had been replaced by a dryer and a washing machine that spun the clothes nearly dry but made a thunderous noise. He never used the dryer, preferring the smell of sun and fresh air on his washing, and he always used the same washing powder she had. Once, he had been too sick to do the shopping and Nancy the neighbour had gone for him instead. He appreciated the kind gesture, but she’d bought a different type of washing powder with an unusual fragrance. He hadn’t said anything to her, but of course it was one of the first things he noticed as she unpacked items and boiled the kettle for tea. That same wrong washing powder still sat next to his regular one in the cupboard under the tub in the laundry. He could not bring himself to use it once, instead taking a trip down High St on the bus to the supermarket for the one that smelled just right. He hadn’t been completely recovered from his illness then, and the trip completely exhausted him, but he felt strangely relieved, as if having the right washing powder was a sign that all was right with the world.He felt as though old age had quietened him, in more ways than one. Once this house was filled with children and laughter and the smell of her baking. Of course, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows – there were arguments too, times when somebody used a heavy foot on the stairs and slammed the door behind him, times when she and his eldest daughter and had argued, back and forth, until their voices were hoarse and eyes were rimmed with red. They argued because they were so similar, he realised, passionate and dramatic and creative and loud.He was different, and so was his son. When the two women, one older and one just struggling out of girlhood, argued, they would escape to the garden, where the yells of frustration would be muted somewhat and there was green for the eyes and dark soil for the hands. They weren’t men of words, the two gardeners, but they planted and weeded and composted together, both enjoying the type of companionship that does not demand or expect conversation. Eventually one

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