strangers and their languages

Dad takes down the fence in the front yard to use for firewood. he managed the whole thing whilst I was out tying new strings to friends I can’t hold on to. the fence has been there since before they bought the house and most likely predates me. I don’t know what made him want do take it down or how much time he gave the thought, though the sticks and planks never really looked good or did much to keep the rabbits out. I listen to the crackle and crumble of fence posts to coal in the lounge room under absentminded conversation. the pope dies and someone wins the football. Mum’s happy til she hears the news. he used his final sermon to plead for an end to the slaughter of children. I wait for the kettle to boil and heap another spoon of powdered chai.

my bag is packed with clothes I think I’ll want to wear through winter. I dress for the cold and end up shedding layers in the queue. always overwhelmed at the departure gate. it’s the same no matter where I’m going. maybe it’s the way I end up thinking when I’m here. there’s a certain shade or feeling that only seems to surface through my vision when I’m leaving; a filter or bug on the front of the lens that I can’t quite remove or see through. some confused, diluted solution of longing or dread for nothing in particular. with enough thinking I’d find the surface of answers and icebergs I’d rather leave melting for now. no doubt they’ll find me next time. children cry from too long waiting for the hostess to tag their bags. I watch the clock and listen to strangers and their languages I can’t even name.