my good woman

Orthodox churches adhere to the Gregorian rather than the Julian calendar for feast days. Orthodox Christians celebrate Christmas today. My good woman goes to the Serbian Orthodox church in Brunswick for the morning service. She’s not religious: it’s a tradition. She lunches with friends from her homeland. I go to pump class, read the big Saturday paper and work in my garden.

My mother has asked if I will take part in my good woman's tradition. No, I tell her, although I have wondered if I should. I involve myself in many aspects of her life, but not this one. I know more of Balkan history than most people, but it is not my history and not my tradition. History is in the blood, not the head.

My good woman likes the beach. I don’t. I like sweet things. My good woman does not. My good woman relishes the heat and humidity of Darwin. I don’t. I like to speed downhill on my bike. My good woman has the brakes on all the way. My good woman loves snow. I hate snow. I can sit at my computer for hours. My good woman wants to go outside.

My good woman is Serbian. I am Australian. We have different notions of privacy and its importance. My good woman wants to know what I dream about, but I rarely dream and never remember what I dreamt. My good woman looks elegant when she dresses for work. I go to work dressed as if I’m putting out the garbage.

Somehow my good woman and I understand each other 98 per cent of the time. My good woman and I read each other’s thoughts constantly. My good woman understands my need to be alone. My good woman calls me her good man. I never had a role in life I enjoyed as much as being her good man, her Mister Nice.

She is my mate—soul mate, playmate, good mate.

Rock on.