A little purple reminder of home

Aren’t we wonderful. Our sheer ability to make connections between colours, smells, sights textures and memories is remarkable. The smell of lemons instantly transports me to the dingy apartment I rented with a friend in Seville, southern Spain. The texture of raw wood sends shivers down my spine, reminding me of the 20cm splinter that pieced my foot one sticky summer at Arrawarra. My toes immediately and helpless curl in total agony. And then there’s the colour or purple, that pungent smell, and the vibrant sight of jacaranda that carries me home – to my childhood home.

I grew in Grafton, Northern NSW. The Jacaranda City. In October and November Grafton looks like a 7-year-olds dream bedroom, decked entirely in purple. There’s doll shows, rowing regattas, dance shows, fireworks, street parades, and heck, even a public holiday. It’s a spectacle as my grandmother used to say. And for some crazy, almost humiliating reason, I’m missing it.