The truth is me and Walter Baxter
were best mates, all through school and after,
when we both got married and had kids.
And pretty soon those kids had children.
In the blink of an eye and the tip of a hat
me and Walter were grey-haired old men
wondering how so many days can go missing.
Walter’s children moved away
and mine stayed
and I didn’t think much of it at the time
but something got into him,
losing that part of himself.
He’d visit me and the wife in the evening.
We’d sit under the lemon tree
and have a few drinks,
watching the honeyeaters in the grevilleas.
Walter visited for years
until my grandkids arrived
and they were always under our feet,
chasing each other
giggling and tumbling around on the soft grass.
Don’t get me wrong,
I loved it.
So did the wife.
But, sometimes, I’d catch Walter
looking at them as they played
and I could hear the sigh building
from deep down.
No one knows what makes a man
or what breaks a man.
Anyway, after his wife died,
Walter stopped visiting.
Once a week I’d go up to his place
and we’d sit in his tatty kitchen
not saying much.
Around these parts there’s nothing to talk about
if it isn’t the weather or family.
How long can you talk about the heat?
Or the wind?
So I went every fortnight instead.
Just two old blokes
staring out the window
listening to blowflies at the screen door.
The house was falling down
and Walter was too.
I did what I could,
bringing lamingtons the wife had baked,
helping him fix the shutters against the wind,
nailing the floorboards
where age and warp had taken their toll.
Once a fortnight wasn’t enough.
I knew it.
When they found my friend,
I can’t tell you how that made me feel.