Faraway stars
After saying goodbye to Ella
at her street corner,
I walk past the lake.
Manx sits on a wooden chair on the verandah
with his feet up on the railing.
‘I missed you at lunch,’ he says,
and grins.
‘We played force-em-backs on the oval.
Every time we kicked the ball over the fence
that turd Patrick
would tell Angelo to fetch it.’
I look at the swarm of bugs
shimmering on the lake.
‘We should be fishing,’ I say.
‘Nah, I’m hungry now.
And Dad’s left me a pot of stew,’ Manx says.
I think of Mum in Balarang Bay,
Dad on the road
and the empty kitchen waiting for me.
Manx jumps off the chair
and opens the screen door.
As he walks down the hallway, he calls,
‘I’ll bring a bowl for both of us.’
I hear the clatter of cutlery
and the sound of an empty saucepan
tossed in the sink.
He returns with two steaming bowls
and hands me one with a spoon.
The stew tastes rich and salty.
‘I was going to make Vegemite sandwiches,’ I say.
Manx laughs.
‘You should’ve invited Ella over,’ he winks,
‘to show her your skills in the kitchen.’
We both stare across the lake
to the lights of Tipping Point twinkling
like faraway stars.