May 10  

sunset burns the lake. sparks of flame amongst ash. further away: an exiting storm. a ghostly figure rests in the contours of the clouds. within it, i see eyes. mine. yours. ours.   

behind me, a branch-swing flies wild in the wind and i glimpse our youth: you sitting on the splintering wood, hand stretched: icarus longing to join the gods. do you remember the hot damp of our tents last december? seagulls stealing chips. pelicans skimming fish. fish flinging skyward, sun-popped scales like fizzing sparklers or new year’s firework displays.  

this setting-sun memory is a ripple in a glass lake. a breath of thick, wet air. a campfire slowly dying.    

May 16  

the lake is still and dark. a gugubarra’s call echoes off its rim. our cousin joined me earlier, too small to understand why you aren’t here. i told him a story of the lake and how, one day, a young girl went out in her uncle’s fishing boat. her sister sprinted to the shore just as she disappeared. the girl’s eyes smiled in the story, even with the storm’s advance. eyes that plagued the local paper. eyes, mirror images of my own.  

cousin’s head rests on my lap now. i pull fingers through his curls as he drifts off to sleep. for someone so small, he snores proudly. i’m happy to not be the only echo in this place.    

June 12  

i sat in the bathtub for hours this morning, shower curtain cloaked around me. your plant clipping was still propagating in glass next to the soap dish, soaking in steam and lemon-balm. its green-yellow tendrils curled around the tap, possum tail on a tree knot.  

mid-morning, mum found me. slipped a black cardigan around my shoulders. beckoned me downstairs. the continuous ebb and flow of mob felt like water licking at our feet, as if the lake wanted her presence known, too.   

dad’s breath smelled of rum and the space between us fermented. bubbling like a seabed or a bloated corpse. it has me thinking if a family can survive when three are firmly on the raft and the other is buried beneath brine and mud.   

at the cemetery, we each had our role to play. mum cried. dad was silent. i threw three shovelfuls of dirt into the ditch. one for each of us. now, as the cold creeps in, i hear the lapping of the lake. she is reminding me that you’re still with her and not under my feet.     

December 25  

i wrote you a poem. folded it into a paper boat. let the waves carry it out. right there, where the shoreline bends. when i last stood here with you, you held a mud crab in your palm, upturned toward the sky like an offering. this lake, your church and tomb, poured its tide over us and we, half-savage, became tangled in the waves while the mud crab, hardy, rolled free.