It was mid-1990. I remember it, in a pleasant, hazy sort of way. The Winter Olympics played on a small square television set (who knew then that flat screens were so much cooler), I was acquainted with the thrill of my favourite books, and the secure encirclement of parents who seemed intuitively to understand how
And so, here we are again. You’d think, nearly two decades later, we’d know how to do this. This day. November 13. Outside my bedroom window the inner-city Sydney traffic huffs and sighs, rumbling toward afternoon’s end, and evening’s slow descent. Downstairs, our angel-friend Rocel clatters in the kitchen, helping us juggle this crazy end of
I didn’t intend to go to the meeting. These days Dr M does most of these things alone, reporting back to me later in stolen snatches, in precious together-breaths caught above or between the perennial kid noise of our household. But my parents were over helping, and the thought of going out together —anywhere—was appealing. On
It’s 5:30pm, an overcast September evening in early Spring, and I’ve escaped the holiday house we are staying in with our three kids for a moment to take a short walk. There’s music playing through my headphones, because, in my opinion, sunset and surf always look at their best accompanied by music, especially if its slow, and raw,
* feature image by Rob Viuya No more normal In the days following my brother’s death, there was nothing to do, and everything to do. Our normal lives had been put on hold while we negotiated that strange, liminal zone between the vaporous shock of the news, and the more solid event of the funeral.