My fingers hop over my keyboard, tapping out ‘words beginning with x’. A few seconds later, I’m scrolling through a long list.
“Did you know there are lots of words starting with x?” I say. “But there’s a problem: I don’t know the meaning of most of them. I can’t write a story about a word I’m not familiar with. I need a simple x word.”
“How about x-ray,” suggests my daughter Imogen.
Do I have any x-ray stories? Well, I certainly have a lot of x-rays. The other week, I was cleaning out my walk-in-robe and I discovered a huge collection of x-rays. I took one of them out of its extra-large envelope, held it up to the light, and examined it. A skull with a mouth crammed full of teeth stared back at me. Not long after that x-ray was taken, that mouth had four fewer teeth. I found several similar x-rays. It seems that Elvis mouths aren’t designed for wisdom teeth.
I slid another x-ray from its package, and looking at it, I remembered my son Callum breaking his arm when he crashed his bike into Charlotte’s. They were cycling in opposite directions around our house. I’d been so angry with Callum at the time. (I guess he’d frightened me.) “How many times have I told you not to cycle in the same direction as your sister?” When I calmed down, I realised that Callum was in severe pain – he’d broken his arm – and suddenly, I felt like the worst mother in the world. Callum’s arm healed. And then he broke his big toe when he stubbed it running barefoot up a set of concrete steps. He was on crutches for six weeks. I have that x-ray too.
But enough about x-rays.
“Do you have any other words?” I ask.
“Extreme,” says Sophie.
“That doesn’t start with an x!”
“It does if you’re one of my students,” says Andy. My husband teaches a kindy class. I suppose it’s okay for five-year-old kids to start extreme with an x. But I’m not five.
“Xylem,” says Andy.
That word brings back lots of memories.
“Do you remember when we were at school and, one evening, we had to set up some science displays for our parents?” I say to Andy. “We had to demonstrate how to cut plant material into thin slices using a special machine. What was it called?” We can’t remember. “Then we stained the slices with dye and looked at the cells under the microscope.”
“Xylem and phloem,” says Andy.
Yes, I remember those plant tissues. At one time, they were a big part of my life. When I finished school, I went to university to study botany. I did most of a horticulture course after that. Why? I don’t know. I don’t enjoy gardening. I can’t keep plants alive.
“Any other words?”
“Xylophone.”
“Do you remember when we went to see King Lear?” I say to Andy. “There was a percussionist sitting on one side of the stage, playing the xylophone.”
“That was a strange production,” says Andy. “The music was weird. Lots of bonging at odd moments during the play. No real tune. There was no scenery either. Do you remember how the actors wore jeans and t-shirts?”
Yes, we went to see King Lear, the minimalist version. We wondered: did they want to save money by not having any costumes and stage sets and proper music? Or did we just miss something? All those strange clonks on the xylophone, and the bare stage, and white t-shirts might have been packed full of meaning. Apparently they were.
During the interval, everyone gathered in the theatre bar where Andy and I listened to the buzzing conversation. As they sipped their champagne, our fellow play-goers drawled in highly educated accents, “The music… the bare stage… the t-shirts… Darling, isn’t this a fabulous production?” So I guess it was. Unless, of course, they were just pretending to understand. People sometimes do that, you know.
One thing was definitely fabulous: the words. I love Shakespeare. I didn’t care about the sets and the costumes. I could have enjoyed the play with my eyes closed. I think Andy’s eyes were closed by the end of the play. He wasn’t familiar with King Lear. I don’t think he understood what was going on.
My thoughts are interrupted. Another suggestion: “X is the sign for multiplication.”
It is indeed. Imagine one virus germ multiplying hundreds of thousands of times and infecting the world’s population. I don’t suppose we need to use our imagination. That’s exactly what happened. It’s not a happy x story. But I’m hoping for a good ending. There’s some encouraging news. The infection numbers are decreasing. Things are looking up. Here in Australia, our restrictions are easing.
One day, we’re going to look back and say, “I remember 2020. It was the year of the coronavirus pandemic. Do you remember how we were constantly washing our hands? We had to keep away from each other. What was that called? Social distancing?”
One day, Covid-19 will be a memory.
“X Memories,” I suddenly announce.
Andy raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“The letter x is packed full of memories. I’m going to write about them. I shall tell my xylem and my xylophone and my x-ray stories.”
So that’s what I decide to do. But then I think of something else.
“X could be a kiss.”
Love letters. Letters from my love. Ah, those memories are just for me.
Photo by Brigitta Schneiter on Unsplash
