The Mimosa Tree by Antonella Preto

mornings across the steaming concrete driveway. Via exits Bambi like a spongy ball that’s been forced into a tight space. She leans on the car, shouts something into the open door, then stands back and waits a few seconds. When nothing happens she starts slamming her fist on the roof and cursing. On the fourth slam the Datsun expels its dallying occupants. It’s Via’s grandchildren, Marco and Sera.
    â€˜Inside!’ she shouts, and they run obediently up the stairs towards us.
    Mum catches them both in a floury hug. They plaster her in sloppy, toothy kisses before running and catching me around my legs with such force I almost fall over. We enter the house as a tangled, tumbling mess.
    Via sits at the table with a farty flop. ‘Bloody kids,’ she moans wiping sweat from her forehead. ‘They never stop. Oh, make me a coffee, Mira.’ She leans back in her chair, holds her head like it’s going to fall apart, then without warning, she springs upright, eyes wide. ‘MARCO! WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES? ’
    â€˜In the car,’ Marco shouts back from the lounge room where he and Sera have started an intense game of Operation.
    â€˜Mira, go get his shoes, would you?’ says Via, flopping back into her chair. ‘What is wrong with these children? Why can’t they keep their shoes on their bloody feet? On and off, on and off. Do YOU THINK IT’S A BLOODY HAT?’ she shouts over her shoulder. Marco and Sera play on, unperturbed. ‘Oh,Sofia, some cake? I feel myself fading.’ She pats her cheeks like she’s checking she’s still actually there, then her eyes flip open again and she starts screaming. ‘SERA PULL YOUR SKIRT DOWN, I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERPANTS! LEAVE IT MARCO SHE WILL DO IT HERSELF. I SAID LEAVE IT! DO I HAVE TO COME IN THERE?’ This last effort drains all her reserves and Via is red with sweat and heat. She begins fanning herself with her skirt, revealing dimpled thighs that meet comfortably even though her knees are quite far apart.
    â€˜You’re so lucky,’ says Mum looking longingly at Marco who is sandwiching Sera’s head between two sofa pillows. ‘I can’t wait to have grandchildren.’
    â€˜Don’t hold your breath, Sofia. You’ll probably be dead by the time Mira gets a boyfriend.’
    I curl my lip at her then go get her precious coffee. It’s clear her mood is not going to improve until we get some caffeine into her. Via smiles gratefully as I place the steaming cup of espresso in front of her, and I leave the two of them to discuss ravioli technicalities and go join my cousins in the lounge room. When they see me they immediately want to start a new game of wars. I’m the good guy, Marco is the bad guy and Sera is the war nurse. There are dramatic battles punctuated by lengthy forehead wiping and temperature taking on the couch. The long, soft pile carpet allows for dramatic falls and tumbles. At one stage my arm gets blown off, and Sera tourniquets my empty sleeve with one of her hair ties before sending me back to battle again.
    â€˜You are a brave soldier,’ she explains as she wipes an imaginary tear from her cheek. She promises to marry mylonely husband and look after my orphaned children if I die in the next battle.
    â€˜Enough salt?’ says Via, stepping onto the battlefield and plunging a coated finger into my mouth. Her apron has a yellow daisy print on the belly and the ends are tucked into her skirt waist because they aren’t long enough to tie around her.
    â€˜Sure,’ I say automatically, like I always do, but then I notice something. ‘Not enough nutmeg.’
    I think I am as shocked as Via.
    She looks at me suspiciously, sucks on her other finger to taste the mixture herself. ‘You’re right. It needs more nutmeg.’ Then she grabs me by the shirt and drags me into the kitchen.
    â€˜I want to play!’ I say looking longingly at my cousins