Impossible to talk

Manx picks up the paddle

and tosses it to me.

I catch it with one hand

and look across the lake.

A wedge of egrets

battle into the breeze.

‘Your dad doesn’t visit

our house much anymore,’ Manx says.

Our families used to get together every Sunday,

the adults with beer and stories,

me and Manx promising to catch dinner,

and Mr Gunn cooking sausages, just in case.

When Manx’s mum left,

just Dad and I would visit,

as if my mum was a reminder

of what Manx was missing.

Our dads would get slowly drunk

and play darts.

‘He’s taking longer hauls,’ I shrug,

‘to pay off the truck.’

I dig the paddle into the sand,

and remember Mum standing

in the kitchen with her bags packed.

‘The Magna is cactus and Mum’s …’

I can’t bring myself to say it.

The wind is pushing white horses across the lake

but neither of us makes a move.

‘You can stay at our place

whenever you want,’ Manx says.

He steps into the kayak

and wedges the esky between the seats.

I nod and attempt a smile

before pushing off.

We paddle across the lake

and the wind is so loud

it’s impossible to talk.

I’m grateful.