Cushions of change.

"She messes up the cushions!"

"She messes up the cushions?"

"Yeah. It's driving me mad!"

"What’s she doing with them?"

"Using them!"

"As what?"

"Cushions!"

I'm in a café, drinking herbal tea talking to one of my wisest friends. It's 2012. Winter in Perth, but I'm heated - with frustration, intolerance and impatience.

It's my sister. The older one. Who packed up her entire life, transitioning 9009 miles, from London to Perth. Just to live closer to me. So, I'd have family with me. For the first time. In my adult life.

"Just."

But.

She has this hair-pullingly, nails down-a-chalkboard painful habit of messing up my cushions.

Dark blue with multi-coloured stripes, juxtaposed against the black leather sofa I bought before I was vegan. It's tired, weathered. The perfect charmed rustic aesthetic I've worked hard to perfect.

"And she keeps messing it up Ann."

"By doing what exactly Lisa?"

I don't like my friend's tone. Tempered with the slightest suggestion of sarcasm. I feel her eyes rolling. Energetically. Not IRL.

I try again:

"Rests her head on them. Watching tv."

"And?"

"It messes up the couch."

"But she's laying on the couch?"

"Yes."

"Then goes to bed leaving them messed up."

This is the crux of the "problem."

And a serious issue.

Let me break it down: I am a visual curator. Supervisor of spaces. Creating aesthetics that arouse awe. What you think of my environment. How it makes you feel. Is extremely important. To me.

It used to be. As did perfection.

Until 2013.

Truth is, my sister is one of the two humans I love more than any other on the planet. The other is my younger sister.

I would give up my life in a heartbeat to prolong or save theirs.

But.

The imperfect asymmetrical positioning of two IKEA navy blue cushions contrasted against my black leather couch…

Houston, we've had a problem.

My friend, with her gentle wisdom spoke life-changing words:

‘It doesn't matter how many people you mentor. How many conferences you speak at. How many staff you manage. None of it matters if you can't offer it to those who love you more. Who live in your home. Deserve it the most. Until then, it means nothing. So go practice that. And you'll know you've grown up when you no longer see the cushions.’

I wasn't even sure I understood.

In 2014, my sister left my home. That we shared for 896 days.

It wasn't the relief I Imagined. But a solemn sadness. Like finding, then misplacing something precious. Thought lost for good. The second time hurting, significantly more.

Whenever she came over. I lit up. As did my lounge. No longer because it was perfect. Curated flawlessly to make you feel things. Be impressed. To like me.

But.

Because they had become her cushions. With magical powers that taught me what matters.

And the gift of how not to see.

When she left, I refused to move them. Often for days. In her honour. Remaining as she left them - strewn haphazardly across a black leather couch.

I smiled when I saw them. Knowing I had grown.

Finally, understanding what makes a house, a home. Next to the navy-blue cushions with the multi-coloured stripes.

H2BH 026/365