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.