Smoothing the curled edge of an old photograph, reminds me…
that men can be trusted
mothers are precious
My father taught me to shoot, to drive a car and a truck… how to change a tyre and clean out a spark plug.
I learned to speak in public from Mum
because he never would.
But he did like to heckle…
before I lost my looks
It was that word – completely – that still makes me laugh.
When he died we gathered on the verandah
And we remembered…
The great strength of his youth starting to fail
but he still had to carry the biggest.
Staggering under the weight of a giant pregnant melon
A vine catching his ankle
Him falling, belly down, shouting, in an explosion of pink, green and white shrapnel
Oh, bloody hell!
How I miss him.