By Jo Curtain.
Sadie and me descend into the valley. Not at ease—the crooked trail hurts my knees. I glance at Sadie, summer-girl shy, tender, her body tall and slender like the Alpine Ash trees. We’re tired. Flesh responding to the unremitting heat, all day soaking up the sunrays. Now, giving it back like the smooth glossy rocks, warm to the touch, prickly—aching sunburnt summer skin.
Sadie and me, I cannot say—it was just for me, wears summer floral frock– light, floating, flowering fields of snow daisies, silver daisies, and yellow billy buttons. And the light scent of honey and dust reflecting summer in her face. Our fingers sweep over soft swaying grass, currawongs move back to their trees, and I imagine spending days alone with her, our little flying tent under the wide summer alpine sky.
And now.
We hear the uneven trickle of water—the sound of the winding creek, flowing, rushing, competing with our own long even breaths. We pause. The parrots in the canopy, like windswept leaves, make us think of rain coming.
And it is then.
Those same sounds can be found simmering, moving through the trees for kilometres. The wind hurrying, slipping and always looking for what is missing. And we. We stand wondering if we’ll find it, make it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jo Curtain is currently studying Creative Writing at Deakin University. She is an emerging writer of short stories and poetry. She has a background in family violence advocacy and case management. She lives with her family in Torquay, Victoria.
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