Christmas meant eating homemade ice blocks on the mission brown steps. Playing with my cousins and siblings down the side of the house. Christmas lunch eaten on the covered deck kids down one end and parents at the other. At three o'clock we gathered around the PVC pine to unwrap our presents. We could always tell the presents from our grandparents. They were always wrapped in 1950s Christmas paper. I look back at the photos and it looks exactly as I remember it. Even the decorations kept their cheerfulness in the faded photograph. That table seems ordinary now. There'll be no homemade ice blocks this Christmas.

            Sundays at George Street were filled with adventure. The house was a maze. The waist high brick fence protected us from the road. I don't remember front yard cricket there. I was too little and I probably wasn't allowed out the front by myself. There was no gate. Waiting in anticipation for the giant front door to open so I could bear hug my grandparents. Vomiting that vile pink antibiotic all over the brown tiled step. The best thing about that medicine was the little roster that came with it. Every day I would force it down so I could put that little sticker on the roster. I felt so proud. We sped down the side driveway. The steep, long strip claimed many a scraped knee and bruise. I watch every time I drive past. That driveways not steep or long anymore. The tall brick fence would be lucky if it was knee high.

            We didn't want them to leave George Street, but once we saw the new place we changed our minds. The driveway was wider and not as steep. Many a game of frontyard cricket was played on the lush grass. It became more of a challenge to keep the ball inside the ground than to score the most runs or claim the most wickets. We even had our own pavilion. The front balcony overlooked the ground and our fathers were ready to catch a six. The boundary was a fence just like George Street. We were older and it was easier to watch us. We didn't need a gate this time. Our cricket series was ruined. Our grandparents turned it into a glasshouse! We weren't to be outdone. We invented "black magic". The fun lasted for a while, along with the head-to-toe allergy rashes from rolling in the grass.

            We uncovered the ancient scooters from under the house. My cousin and I would scoot up the driveway and around the backyard. We'd speed down a short but steep hill (over the speed bump) and grab onto the clothesline. We'd spin until we got dizzy and then tear off down the other side of the house. We progressed to rollerblades when the scooters got too small. That clothesline was always old. Today it's just a shell. The wires droop and the support is rusting away. It's been decaying since we stopped playing. We've worn away the speed bump and the hill is barely a rise. Funny how everything seems so out of proportion when you're seven.

            Wheels gave us freedom and imagination. Our grandparents house became an entire city. My cousin and I would create our own world. The back veranda was our house, the hole under the house was the service station, the colourful bushes with those weird seed pods were the bank (the seed pods were our currency. The unpopped ones were worth more). We spent hours playing out the back, even in the veggie garden. Pop taught us how to know when the carrots were ready. Every visit we would fill ice-cream containers full of tomatoes and greens. Getting them home was never an issue. They rarely lasted that long. Just like Nan's pickled onions. She'd have to make up a spare batch when the grandkids were over cause we'd demolish the jar in minutes. Her slices were heavenly too

Cricket moved to the side driveway. We created a whole new set of rules. Each pair of fence panels was worth set runs, the shed door was four, six on the full. Over the fence on the full was out. We even had Boonie the chair fielding at silly midwicket. We played our last game at number 14 today. We managed to remember all the rules. This time we didnt have the neighbours's dogs to contend with though.

            We're all standing out the back in the spotting rain. Were waiting for Creightons to take Nan away. The garden still seems so bare without the veggie patch. It's been at least five years since the gardens have been there. Strawberries lined the driveway, root vegetables along the side fence, sunflowers in the corner, beans, peas and more kinds of tomatoes than I could count. We picked the tomatoes and dug up the carrots. Grass has taken over the beds. The few remaining flowerbeds are scraggly. The fairytale arch over the stairs has rusted and started to fall over the years. My last remaining evidence of the garden rotted long ago. I still love the smell of vanilla, no matter how much things change.

I just found the games. I dust off the box. It's a knockout! We loved that game. I give it one last sentimental look as I realize it has to go. We can't keep it. I open the Fuzzy felt box with trembling hands. Sure enough, the picture I created nine years ago is still there. Happy felt people wandered through a serene park. A sense of innocence washes over me. It was created before the world fucked me over. I don't want to let go of this. I have to let go. I toss it into the trailer and walk inside before I have time to comprehend.