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.’