GRAce trinh, harp troubadour

I bought my harp in my first year out of school, during the gap year I was taking to go to South America. I had been saving money working at a shop in Alexandria that sold nuts, baklavas and Turkish delights as well as things like unscented cheap white candles I often bought to do impromptu, made-up witchcraft – usually for finding love in Brazil. I envisioned meeting a lanky Latino guy in a bar in Sao Paulo and experiencing a transient romance to brag to my friends about when I got home. Dan, my friend from hip-hop dance classes, had fooled around with me, but it was never romantic. I imagined South America would be.

It was a funny little shop. Sometimes I walked home past it at night on a long walk back to Marrickville and the “OPEN” sign would still be flashing in the dead of night when the manager, Hasan, would most definitely be asleep in the back of the shop where he lived. I only got $15 an hour cash in hand, but I worked nearly 50 hours a week, bright and eager after years of schooling.

For the rest of the year, I felt like a flower blossoming. Wearing a yellow tankini at Coogee beach with Amy, we let saltwater dry on our bodies lying on big beach towels. More nights by the harbour, more cocktails, more flowers opened in my heart. Flowers opened for Dan too, he met other girls, I became his confidante, with a tiny bit of natural jealousy I never expressed. Really, I loved that role in his life more than most women with male platonic friends can fathom. It made me feel like I was above the whole thing, it made me feel more attractive to be less so and still act completely cool.

Songs of my own echoed in my head during all these happenings, these days and nights. No one had heard them yet. My songs weren’t ready.