Kerri Shying R # 23 Broadmeadow Station at Four OK

Broadmeadow Station at Four OK

“Is that the one that looks like a drug dealer?”

 We laugh. Friendly poison, - energy locked into a stone before you throw it, the car before you drive through my hedge, the words yet uttered, you the Police, and knocking at our door. I remind them of that tawny toffee brother, sat in colour between the pair of us, fairer like me - hazel as you.

We are always seeking each other in my family, restlessly retelling -Tempe and Dubbo  - not getting found dead on the toilet like Uncle Bobby - we come from something else is what we know. Giggling at Aunty Violent - remembering Pop rolling his own with one hand  - being asked “Are you an abo” on the trains.

“Nah”, my son would say about his uncles, “I think they are just dirty”, with bad twinkle in his eye. I  go to bed moody.

The last of this generation to come of age. They are not all alive - a gapped toothline – that serried rank of cousins -grief shattered everything.

We are the we.

Words from the long dead mouth of our grandmother, suddenly alive in modern air - doing their work regardless of who’s willing.

Brother at the station with his duffle and a cigarette waiting. Getting used to having brother here with me - soft walker beloved of small things - in conversation with the dog - returning from  locked places, yipping in our common tongue -our singing stone in pocket - we smile and walk together in the Sunday sunshine talking. - sand that was once glass puffs  dust from our feet.