There are six cars and a caravan in the front yard of the Tetleys’ house. The humble Tetleys, who don’t get too many visitors. If they had neighbours, they’d be craning their necks over fences. But they haven’t had neighbours in years, nor very good fences, for that matter.
From above there’s no order to the picture. People pile out of cars. Some clutching flowers, others holding plates stacked with almond biscuits and cream-filled cannoli. The sound of wailing drifts over the tin roof. Your sister gets her hands stuck in her pearls as she waves them about. Pearls ping down the garden path, roll in the gutter, fall down the drain. Your niece slips on them, your dad tries to grab her elbow. Down they go, into the orange gravel-dust.
Some of the visitors are inside now. Flapping those hands and filling the kitchen with noise. Your children climb out of corners, peer around doorframes, and one climbs right out of the living room window.
Your sister, Lisa, is holding shortbread biscuits to their lips, but they blink at her with tight shut mouths. You watch your father hug your
daughter close. He never seemed that tender, back when you were young.
The only language he spoke was botany, and so you learned. Fast. A small child, reciting scientific names.
Rose is thinking about how you didn’t stick around for this bit, nicked off before your own family arrived from Perth.
This is the part no one considers. When the life has ended, but the chaos continues.
You drift up above the karris and turn, look back down.
Your husband, Eddie, is making a noise that makes everyone else close their eyes. You remember when you first saw him, crouched over a bucket at Emu Point. A boy in a blue flannelette shirt. He was calling out to his friend over on the rocks. You heard his mate shout something back, and the boy in blue stuck his head in the bucket.
‘Got about a dozen whiting and a coupla herring.’ His voice echoed round the red plastic.
‘Hi,’ you said.
He looked up then, smiled shyly. His eyes were the same colour as his shirt. You reckon you knew, even then. Just as you held your hand out, the other fisherman plonked his bucket down on the jetty. He was wearing a red flanno in the same chequered print.
‘Hey, lady, I’m Bert,’ he said, and he took your hand and shook it. You’d never been touched by a Noongar before.
‘Elena,’ you said, and he winked. Blue shirt bit his lip. Chuckled softly and elbowed his mate out of the way. ‘Eddie.’
You remember his hand was calloused, tacky with salt and fish bits.
Those calloused hands were heavy and warm, made of the earth. Hands that grounded you, held you. Tickled your children, lifted their chins to the stars, traced your lips. Shook the soft, cold hands of doctors. Trembled as they held your test results, did their best to keep you here.
Were laid gently on your heart as it beat its final dance.
Now, those hands are clenched.
Open.
Shut.
Open.
Shut.
Open shut open shut open shut.
Chest heaving and knees wobbling…
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