Grieving Season

I take my father’s ghost and a crochet bird nest with me. The air is clean and clear, my body is empty, and no-one mentions the war.
It is January. The nest is a half-built tiny home for a tiny injured thing. The left-over yarn I’m using is messy as life, cobbled together. An emergency measure.

 

We already know which cities will go dry. Which will be flooded.

I tuck the nest, with hook and yarn, into a (reused) paper bag.

And somewhere there is an animal. The last of its kind.

 

In March, we are sent to our homes, while we still have them.

We’ve already forgotten islands. We’ve already forgotten fire.

I fold my father’s ghost and slip it between my ribs. I wear my grandmother’s thin Irish skin as a mask and learn how to breathe. Nothing is wasted. My liver came down from my Grandfather.

We are sent to our homes.

On the TV the rich men take turns.

And somewhere is an animal. The last of its kind.

 

I have forgotten the unfinished birds’ nest by August, until I find it on a side table. It is made of left-over strings of yarn in every colour and it is the ugliest thing I’ve ever created. I remember when I sat watching the world on fire. All I could do was twist and hook with great seriousness.

On the TV the men don’t mention tiny birds and their vaporised homes.

The people are dying (heart disease, cancer).

The people are dying (suicide, hunger, mosquito).

The people are dying (virus unknown).

“People really die and no longer one by one,” Sigmund Freud said (Freud, via Victoriano, 2003 212).

On the TV the men come and go but there’s never time to grieve.

Fire season is nearly here again.

And somewhere there is an animal, the last of its kind.

 

I am 11 years old, sitting under a tree next to the river. A migraine peels apart my brain. My grandma’s cool hand on my face.

“Just let the pain in, don’t resist,” she says. “Relax. The pain comes from resisting.”

I relax my mind. The seagulls wheel.

The tree holds us in its shade.

 

Here’s the pain I let in: I have stopped thinking about the baby bird. (I think of it as a baby but it could just be very, very small). I’m slow at crochet and not very good with babies either, having never had one wanted one, having never seen the need.

But now the world is full of endings and somewhere an animal is the last of its kind.
My Grandma’s cool hand on my skin.

The world is full of endings and I am the daughter of a daughter.

I will never have a daughter.

And somewhere, an animal is the last of its kind.

 

There are no ultimatums with ghosts.

My dad is a ghost who, when living, would enter the country in secret, so he could surprise us after school. Thirty years before every kid in the country saw the animal corpses. Thirty years before we started baking bread with fervour, stuck at home, safe at home, neither, never. He leans in, all paper, and reminds me that it was him. That he told them where to dig for the oil and the gas.

Here, on Noongar country, I was born, he was born, his dad was born, and before that, the boat, the English towns, the Irish fields. The sky is clear, there is no emergency for white folks, until there is.

And somewhere there’s an animal. The last of its kind.

Dropping its bones for the future (what future?) to name.

 

I tuck his ghost back between my ribs, I take him with me to the protest march. But my voice is stuck, there are feathers and guilt in my throat.

On the TV, the rich men come and go.

Fire season is nearly here again.

“People really die, and no longer one by one,” Dr Freud said. “It is no longer an accident.” (Freud, via Victoriano, 2003 212).

And somewhere there is an animal, the last of its kind.

 

The Noongar calendar has six seasons, because December is different to February, but they all burn just the same these days.

The ghost of my dad folds up small. A beginning, an ending, an origami weight of never growing old.

It’s eleven seconds to midnight. The rich men wear suits and wave showbusiness hands.
Now is not the time.

Now is not time.

Now is not.

I thought there’d be more shouting, at the end.

And somewhere, there is an animal.

The last of its kind.

 

—January – September, 2020

Works cited

Victoriano, Filipe, Aaron Walker and Carl Good Fiction, Death and Testimony: Toward a Politics of the Limits of Thought, Discourse 25, (2003): 211–230. Sourced at http://www.jstor.org/stable/41389671.