Dad walks me to school the other way. Not past the Coke factory, the way all the boys go, but his kind of way through Parramatta Park. He likes to walk past all the old buildings and underneath the fig trees on the bicycle path. He walks and does not say anything. His heavy feet make the stones on the ground fly up around his shoes. The park is different in the morning. No one is around playing footy or cricket the way they do in the afternoons or drinking at night. This time of day it’s mums with prams and guys with pot bellies jogging.
Dad stops at the bubbler and has a drink. When he straightens up he wipes the back of his hand against his mouth. He looks at me again, like he’s making sure that all my arms and legs are still in the right place. I don’t ask him why he’s walking me to school for the first time since I was ten. He takes a deep breath and swallows hard as if he needs to make himself feel okay again.
These are days of silence and swimming pools and feeling like concrete on the inside.