Mother’s Pilgrimage by Quentin Cockburn

It’s a pilgrimage of sorts, I count the empties, Mum and I assess the damage, and then methodically compile a list.  The making of lists is very important, we cannot forget a thing.  The route is familiar, just a short hop from the old paper mill at Alphington.  A left hand turn and we park the car.

There is something profoundly ecclesiastical in the design.  The first thing you notice inside is the sound, it’s that lofty cathedral resonance, of muffled voices, the absence of music, and the soft clink of bottles being stacked, and cartons lifted.  At the portal we are greeted by a man collecting boxes upon a trolley, he smiles, we make a short greeting and then walk with practiced steps towards the far end of the building.

‘Which one’? I inquire pointing to the assembled objects, arrayed sarcophagus like in their respective niches, like statuettes.  ‘I think this one has the best value, it’s on special, only $41.95 for the whole litre’, she says.  We turn it over, feeling the satisfying weight, and noting its promise within.  ‘Excellent value’ I exclaim, and cradling its fragile shape with reverential awe, place it carefully into the little basket.  ‘Let’s have a look over here’ says Mum, and in the ensuing fifteen minutes a wonderment of delights is revealed and, according to principles of procedure and procurement, the basket is safely filled..

Later, warmed by the crackling fire, we savor our purchase, the deep richness of Johnie Walker, cleansing the soul, mellowing the hard edges of a worn out day, and the knowledge that life, just for the moment, is stayed.  ‘I suppose we should try one of those reds’ I suggest, ‘they looked pretty good’.  She replies matter of factly…’Let’s try some now and have the rest with dinner’ , … ‘Good idea, and what do you think we should do for dinner’.  Not moving, the reply is measured, ‘That’s alright, there’s something in the fridge’.  I examine the contents of the fridge, a faint odour of putrefaction assails me.  ‘I think, I’ll get some rolls from the bakery, and make something up’…Still immobile savouring the calming effect of her drink she replies,  ‘Alright then’, and ‘this wine is good’…‘yes’ I mutter, whilst filling the rubbish bin with off cheese, left over renderings from last christmas, and the vegemite stamped, use by Feb 1996,  ‘It is, isn’t it.’