This place burnt down the year she was born. Built again in brick and no time. We’ve hired the back room for her birthday lunch, dressed her in cherry red, sat her by the fire. The new owners had it stoked up long before we arrived, stood at the door smiling as we made the slow way across from the car in the sun. Winter in the Wheatbelt feels like summer to me. But she is always cold now, as though already underground. She is twig and husk, a frond of bracken curled in on itself. Feather snagged on a brittle stem. Cirrus cloud teased to thread by the wind.
Tomorrow, she will not wake up, and we will take turns to not say what we’re thinking.
