The workshop

I turn on the light

in the workshop

and close the door.

I can’t believe I’m alone here with Ella.

I take two beers from the fridge

and offer her one.

She smiles. ‘Toss it, Jonah.’

She catches it with one hand

and sits up on the desk

before opening the bottle.

We survey the workshop

of a slowly failing future.

Peachy whines as if she understands.

Ella looks at a photo on the wall.

‘Mum and Dad,’ I say.

They’re standing in front of

a freshly painted rig with a full load.

Dad’s much younger;

his curly hair is bleached with sun and sand

and the chance of a wave

before the evening fades,

before he drives all night

still high on the barrels of Balarang Bay

and his love for Mum.

Mum’s wearing a summer dress

and is barefoot and pregnant.

They look so happy,

so certain about the future

where Dad has enough time for waves

and a proper job –

making surfboards

or at the council –

clocking off

with a few hours of daylight left.

Truck driving …

it’s only temporary.

‘Your dad looks handsome,’ Ella says,

‘like his son.’