A steady hand curls through my hair, just as it did the night of the storm.
“For tonight,” he says, “it's just you and me, okay? We can deal with tomorrow after sunrise.” “Just you and me,” I repeat.
Or not.
I hear a sudden rustle in the branches behind us.
A pair of yellow eyes glows in the firelight.
“Somebody has their eye on our dessert,” I grin. “Might have to take this party indoors.”
I lead a nervous Amos by the hand, scooping the fruit into my arm.
Sitting in the front seat of the ute, we spread a towel between us like a picnic blanket.
“Possums are voracious when they smell a feast. No point tempting her.”
We peer through the window as it scampers along a tree branch.
She pauses to look at us, then disappears from view.
My knife slides easily through the thick green rind.
A crisp wedge soon balances in each palm.
Juice trickles down our wrists and chins as we devour it.
I’ve never forgotten the look on my mothers face that day.
Hurrying to finish our treat before we were caught.
It was one of the few times I’ve ever heard her laugh.
The memory is bittersweet, almost overwhelming.
And now she’s within walking distance for the first time in my adult life.
Sitting here with Amos, my past and present collide gently.
“Of course you packed wet wipes,” he says. “Baby, you think of everything.”
Plan ahead. That’s my specialty.
Sadly, no amount of planning or checklists can prepare me for tomorrow.
But tonight exists outside of all that.
So I distract myself, unzipping a small suitcase on the back seat.
We gather what we need for the night.
Toothbrush, pajama shorts, tshirt, hoodie.
My darling avoids the possum tree as he brushes his teeth.
???
After piling more wood on the fire, we shuffle inside the tent.
