It’s September, there’s going to be a killing frost, and your mum would have taken the geraniums in, he says. They can’t take frost. Winters, she kept the good plants here for everyone to see and those that weren’t doing so well, she’d put them in the bedroom until it was time for them to grow again. I can do that, he mutters, picks up a pot, elbows the patio door closed because his hands are full, too full even though I’m the one swaying in front of the fireplace the way you do with new babies, you can never stand still with babies in your arms. He comes out of the bedroom, circles the kitchen, says I play her music sometimes, just for the heck of it, says I don’t even like it. I know, Dad, I say, hide my face against my baby’s. You want tea? He opens and closes cupboards. I tell you, it’s something else to go to the grocery store after all these years, get smoked sardines, pickled olives, whatever I want. You never know what’s going to sneak up on you. Did I tell you about yesterday? I wake up, go to make breakfast, open the fridge, next thing I’m standing in front of the stove, holding two eggs. Dad, I’ll get it, I say, here, you take her, and I hand her over. He sways. I reach for the kettle, my arms warm with the emptiness.
Laila Miller writes about bougainvilleas and sea urchins and turnips, and sometimes about people who don’t get along. Her work can be found in
FlashFlood Journal, Flash Frontier, Consequence Forum, and elsewhere. Originally from Canada, she lives in Perth, Western Australia with her husband and son.
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