'Some Things in and out of the Garden at the Smith Family Barbecue' by Gaynor Jones

Smoke billowing. Clean washing taken down from the line, bundled back into the machine. A voice that can’t be hers saying it’s fine it’s only laundry like she doesn’t resent doing laundry all day, all week, all year. A girl pretending to fly, arms spread as wide as her smile but underfoot, always underfoot, and so shooed away like a gnat. Too-hot sun. Stifling. Unbearable. Windows open everywhere. The key forgotten, lazing on the upstairs sill. A man, lip trembling at his inability to light a goddamned barbecue. Smoke smothering. A woman who feels she can’t breathe. A family who do not mean to suffocate. A girl, waving, who thinks she might fly. A stumble. A smashed gnome. A pause, then I hated that fucking thing anyway. A shared laugh. A moment, just a moment, like things might be okay. A voice from up high, look at me, look at me. A silhouette in the window frame. A split-second realisation. A nature documentary. Birds tumbling off cliffs. The cruelty of the cameramen, only watching. Metal tongs dropping. The sound of steel on stone. A scream. A girl who thought she could fly. A man who was able to catch her. An tumble of limbs and rapid heartbeats. Two pairs of eyes locking on each other. A moment, a definite moment, that things will be okay.