Nan says the road to our house
is like a train track without the rails.
Just stones and ruts and potholes.
It goes on for ages
and last year the shire council
decided the school bus couldn’t take it anymore.
Nah, they didn’t fix the road,
they stopped the service.
It’s only our family who lives out here.
Now we walk up Peaks Hill
and cut through the Jensen farm,
stepping over millions of cowpats
and dodging the stinging nettle
to reach the other road
where the bus does stop.
It takes me and Ursula twenty minutes
because she’s only six years old
and I have to hold her hand,
even if she doesn’t want me to.
We only have to do it for another few weeks
because the council has decided
to bitumen our road.
True.
All because the ambulance didn’t make it on time
when Grandpa had a heart attack last month.
If it was a proper road . . .
but it wasn’t and even though Dad and me
lifted him into the Land Rover
and Dad drove
like I’ve never seen him drive before,
we only made it halfway to town.
The ambulance put Grandpa on the metal trolley
that clanked and creaked
and we jumped in the back.
But it didn’t do any good.
I held Ursula’s hand at the funeral too.
It was warm and soft and small.
I looked at her hand in mine for ages,
instead of looking at Grandpa’s coffin.