When Mum and Dad were building their dream house in the hinterland of South East Queensland, they said I could paint my room any way I wanted. I chose pastel pink walls and pale mauve for the ceiling and cornices. The doors of my built-in-robes were a glossy off-white. Small ceramic knobs with little pink roses on them. It was Mum and Dad’s idea to make the doors glossy — so I could stick posters on them without the paint coming off. 

Back then I was crazy about cats. Every Christmas I’d be given at least two cat calendars. One would always be from my Aunt — she was crazy about cats too. At the end of every year, I’d cut out the photos from the calendar and stick them to my wardrobe doors with Blu Tack. I grew out of cat calendars after a couple of years, but people kept giving them to me, saying “I know how much you love cats,” so I just kept cutting out the pictures and sticking them up.

Open the doors of my wardrobe and usually there was a musty smell. Sandwiches from a few school lunches ago, still in their little plastic bags, growing drops of condensation and spots of black. Food goes off quickly in the humid conditions in Queensland. Can’t remember really why I didn’t eat my sandwiches. There was a period of my life, somewhere between the ages of eleven and thirteen, when I didn’t feel like eating my lunch. Realised I could stand it, stand the headaches and the hunger. Not sure how long I did that for. Could have been a couple of months, maybe a couple of weeks. Maybe on and off. Pretty sure I lost a fair bit of weight looking back at photos. I don’t think that was my intention. I think it was more about proving to myself that there was something in my life which I could control. At some point, either before or after, it was decided that I could make my own lunch. I could choose what I wanted and it would be one less chore for Dad. He was raising us on his own by then. That made it easy. I just stopped taking lunch.

Then there was the smell of old chocolate. The Easter Bunny used to leave Easter eggs for me in my pink Barbie pillowcase. I liked chocolate but somewhere along the line I went off it and would leave my Easter eggs, still in their shiny foil wrappers, to turn white and slightly powdery. Some of them must have stayed in my wardrobe for nearly a year before I finally threw them out.

One year I smuggled a miniature rose plant into my wardrobe. Little ruby pink flowers and dark green leaves. Poor little plant had to last a week in the dark. Or maybe only a few days. I can’t remember. I’d bought the plant for Dad from the Father’s Day stall at school. Brought it home with the top slightly poking out of my woven drawstring school bag. Wonder if Dad saw it as I got into the car… We had a huge garden — I probably could have hidden the pot plant somewhere outside. But I couldn’t be sure that Dad wouldn’t come across it, so I hid it in my wardrobe. I knew he’d never look in there. My father was always very careful to respect my privacy.

Of course, my wardrobe was full of other things. The usual things. A wooden chest of drawers with t-shirts and shorts — not much need for pants and jumpers in the tropics. Bags, shoes, hats. When Mum was alive, I had a lot of clothes. Mum used to love dressing me up. But as I got older, I really only got new clothes on an annual shopping trip with my aunt. I wore the clothes until they had holes in them or, more often, until I grew out of them. A lot of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my brother. His t-shirts were nice and baggy and comfortable in a hot climate when you’re outside a lot.

Sometimes I’d get sick of the way my wardrobe looked on the inside and stay up late rearranging its contents. Once I emptied the clothes out of my chest of drawers into a wire storage rack which held bags and other bits and pieces. Didn’t really think it through. Not all my clothes fit in it, and then I had stuff everywhere. All over the floor. Dad came in and growled at me. Told me it wouldn’t be practical and to put everything back at once. 

I’ve been having dreams recently about that wardrobe. Lots of clothes in it. All new. Tops in different colours. Skirts in the same design but different fabrics. Plastic coat hangers. Sometimes there are children’s clothes hanging on small coat hangers. In the dream, I stand in front of its open doors, frantically moving the hangers along the silver rod, trying to decide what to wear. So much to choose from, but ultimately, I can’t make a decision and then the dream ends. Lots to unpack in that wardrobe — in the wardrobe in my dreams. But we’ll leave that for another day.