Last night at dinner
Mum and Nan cooked a roast
with thin-sliced potatoes baked in the oven,
just the way I like them,
and pumpkin and broccoli from our garden
and Dad made his favourite pepper sauce
for pouring gloopily over the roast
and me and Dad
moved the kitchen table and chairs
out to the verandah
for the breeze
and Dad let me pour
him and Nan
a glass of beer each
but Mum touched her tummy
and said no
when I offered her a glass.
Maybe she’s sick?
And I filled Ursula and my glasses
with sweet raspberry cordial.
We all sat outside
eating and drinking
and halfway through the meal
Dad clinked his glass with a spoon
and stood up,
‘Nan, Pete, Ursula . . .
guess who’s pregnant?’
Ursula giggled, ‘You, Dad!’
and everyone laughed
but we all looked at Mum,
her face had gone as red
as the cordial in my glass
and, just for a second,
I saw Nan glance
across the paddock
to the cemetery
where Grandpa is buried
and then she reached over
and hugged Mum tightly.
Mum had gone from blushing
to crying
and she hugged Nan back
and said,
‘If it’s a boy,
I know what we’ll name him.’
And Nan smiled.