there is always more work. I sit at the breakfast bench in my aunty’s kitchen. we used to sit on the same stools as we waited for pancakes and played tumbling monkeys. I fall into the screen and attend to my tasks. progress on one makes another emerge. I respond to emails and schedule meetings and Mum writes the eulogy at the dining table behind me. she asks me what I think and I think that she’s done a good job.
by the time we close our screens and leave the house for air what’s left of the sun is only just enough for a walk by the creek. I couldn’t see the carriage of the freight train. for a moment I saw shipping containers gliding down the stream. my aunty asks if I still go to church. she only goes sometimes. Mum asks her questions about the last few days with Nonna. we’re all glad she went peacefully. I want to look through albums but my eyes are feeling heavy.
I woke up sweating between dreams that made me tired. this house is warm and I think my body has acclimatised to sleeping in the cold. Mum says I was twitching in my sleep. apparently the cat does the same. I don’t know why but it doesn’t really matter.
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