Sweet, patient man.
Bearing witness to my homecoming, and my healing.
In this small corner of the world, nothing has changed since I left.
Familiar faces have most likely aged.
Buildings have galvanised or weathered in the heat.
But his river looks exactly the same.
The wild aroma of caked mud and sun-baked bark.
The ground solid beneath my feet in a way that city pavements can never replicate.
Surrendering to my senses, I place a hand against the bark.
Peeling and rough in some parts, smooth in others.
Leaves curl between my fingers.
Another memory unlocks.
I once smuggled handfuls of these home in my pockets.
I’d stash them in an empty marmalade jar.
The glass would rattle on my bedside table whenever a door slammed.
Or whenever someone I loved got pushed against a wall.
I would rub the leaves between my fingers to feel safe.
As though my hiding spot tree had followed me home.
Something inside me folds open.
Grief for a stolen childhood.
An ache for all that has been lost.
Looking out across the water, the scrub line obstructs any view of the town.
But somewhere on the other side of those trees, a woman remembers.
She remembers a little boy who once sat on her knee.
“I’m here, Ma,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
the twenty seventh chapter
MARCO
Daylight is beginning to fade now.
The river darkens into gold at the edges.
Seeking comfort in Amos's arms, I pause for a kiss.
