We lived in the suburbs and suburbs sounds like a boring old word. What’s a suburb anyway? Commuting distance to the city? A residential community? An expectation? A dream? A lie? The truth? Well it’s easy to say boring if you try to or you want to or you forgot to remember the stories or the people you loved. We came to live in a suburb of Melbourne. Sometimes there was a commute in to the Market. We would take public transport to the Victoria Market. A friend and I started to do that when I was quite young. Somehow all the suburbs came together then, somehow all the countries of the world came together too, all the sights and sounds, colours, customs and food. Oh yeah there was plenty of plastic crap and knock off brands to buy too but in between there were people and stories and handy crafts. There was a rich ethnicity, the smell of spice and the hope of finding a bargain.
Recently some memories I’d lost came back to me and it’s all about the Moon and a marketplace. I’ve long been a moon gazer. I never wanted to be an Astronaut so much as to know about the unknown. I’ve never wanted to take a piece of the Earth for myself or for Science so much as to feel home and protect it. I’d make a terrible property investor for this reason, though some people can make an honest enough living that way all the same in a responsible way. We are all driven by different motivations of course. It was a full moon the night before I made the trip into the Vic Market many years ago. The fullest moon reminds me of something old world, vintage and dreamy. All that old soul dreamy sepia glow is reassuring somehow, nostalgic and full of history, eons and eons of history. I was going to go into the market to buy a gift but how could I possibly find a piece of the moon? I wrote a little poem about the moon in my bed and somehow I felt they were words I’d already sung many years ago. “One Night the Moon…”
At the Market there seemed to be store holders that would pop out at you all of a sudden. I wasn’t good at “all of a sudden” but at one stall the store holder with an accent to charm me, was more steady and calm. He asked me what I might be looking for. I was strangely honest;
“You’re not going to be able to help me.” I answered softly.
“You never know, perhaps I will.” He seemed to whisper back.
“This stall is bags and keyrings and moccasin slippers. That’s not exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Moccasin slippers you say? These are worn as shoes now! With a good flannel shirt, ahh, very popular.”
“Yes, that is a popular look in some parts you’re right and nothing to be sniffed at but I’m looking for a piece of the moon. I bet you can’t help me with that, haha. “
“Hmm, ah, no, no young lady, I cannot but come with me, I’ll take you to a friend of mine. Now he’s the one with a piece of the moon.”
Weaving in between a bustling scene the market man found me his friend with many stones and pieces of string and leather.
“This lady, you help! She wantsa piece of the moon!”
That man wasn’t one of many words at first except to say;
“This, this this THIS is black moonstone. You keep with this shark tooth one ok?”
“Why the shark tooth too? Is this how you get me to buy them both?”
“No, I give to you free with the Moon. You can have them both no charge. Brave shark moon lady.”
“Oh, no I’ll pay for it. I want to. It’s a gift for someone for his Birthday. I’ve already bought him an engraved silver pen, not the most expensive in the cabinet, but you know the shopkeeper says they are all made in the same factory and a box of chocolates and…Gosh I never talk this much, not usually, excuse me..”
“You see, works, Brave shark lady. You keep, forget pony boy ok.”
“Pony boy?
“I don’t know who it is for. I don’t know who your friend is, but this is my gift for you.”
“No I’m sure it’s a gift and I’d like to pay for it actually. “
“Ok if you insist but I have this same one, these two, you see. “
And underneath his shirt, there they actually were together.
The man was quite young, but older than myself. He looked distant and then close with his eyes at me.
“Are you ok? You look upset.”
“No, I’m not ok. Today I am not really to be ok. Today would be my little girls birthday , you see?”
The young man and I seemed oddly free as strangers in those short minutes to share the story and pulling out his wallet opened to a picture of a little girl smiling, dark curls, dark green eyes and tan skin. Then he started to cry. He was also very apologetic.
I asked the man if I could get him some water, a coffee, tea, tissues, all of those fill in the spaces of not being able to fill the space at all and this seemed to cheer him up.
“NO, I’ll make you coffee.”
Turkish coffee is an acquired taste. He made me coffee on a little camp stove top at the back of his stall. It was very strong. It was thick, strong and prominent. It was not fading, distant or saying goodbye. I drank the coffee even though the taste was so different to anything of my home. I didn’t like the coffee just yet. Now I quite like it. I did like this man. We sat for a while and chatted and eventually I left with the necklaces. His final words;
“The shark tooth is plastic, the moonstone is real. I don’t sell the teeth of sharks for real. I don’t want you to think I was, how you say…. Ripping you off. The teeth of sharks stay in the teeth of sharks anyway, you think?
“Right. Yes, and well the moon will stay with the dreamers and your daughter.”
The gift was eventually given and received well enough I think.
“It’s so you can be a brave man, one day even though you’re already brave, right? Well brave when you can do it. Don’t worry if you mess up though sometimes. The pen it’s got your name engraved. It’s a lovely name. It’s your name.”
The shark tooth was given back to me by the same person, when I needed to be brave, after something of a very sad time. It wasn’t for anyone else to wear. It wasn’t about whether the shark tooth was real or not or about selling the story around the necks of an advertisement for beer or manhood or fancy clothes and it was deeply personal. It wasn’t for other people to tell or exploit in the wrong way. That’s the thing about stories. That’s the thing about stolen memories or stolen generations or loss. Stories are sacred. Memories can be dear or troubling or missing or recalled at any time or forgotten again. Yesterday was my Birthday. I had a good strong coffee and remembered that man who told me a story for free. I think the telling of it is ok in this instance because It’s just to say the truthful part mattered most. Strangely he ran after me too with a few more final words and a pouch.
“Take this, this one is free. I won’t see you again, I just needed to talk to someone today. This is a pink stone. It is the sky after the brave moon shines each night. Is like the morning.”
I was astounded a poet lived in the middle of The Victoria Market. I’m not astounded by that anymore. That was the day I learnt that everyone is an artist and it’s not a competition. It was a good day. I’m happy to remember that and how the gift was received by someone I loved dearly. Make a wish xx
If a heart quite literally grew a tiny child, a tiny heart 
