I was looking through photos with my family for my dad's funeral last week and came across one photo of my brothers and me on the front step of my Nana's house (dad's mother) and it struck me of the significance of the number on the door (8).
My father was born on the 8th of April and lived in this house, number 8, and dad would later have to bust open that front door to find his mother dead on the floor from a cerebral hemorrhage (she was on the phone to my mother who lived miles away and Nan was complaining she couldn't see and then collapsed while still on the phone) on April the 8th, his birthday.
I always thought it must have been terrible to try and celebrate your birthday on the day your mother also passed.
I always thought about Nan dying on my father's birthday when I would give him his birthday present and wondered if it played on his mind every birthday he had since her passing.
Nana had bought us boys a peddle car to share when we were younger than in this photo above and it had a number-plate with three 8s.
Her house has long since gone and been replaced by an office building, but I remember how lucky she was when the Brisbane river flooded it's banks in the '74 floods and the muddy water was an inch of coming over those same front steps and destroying her carpet and furniture.
My gym boots in that top photo would have been standing in those flooded '74 river waters lapping at the front door back then.
Of course you can't step into the same river twice, as they say.
But I remember shoveling the stinky mud from her garage and yard with my relatives and thinking how lucky Nan was not getting that river through her upstairs rooms.
I guess it was just f8.