perspectives
MR GORBACHEV Words Ryan Butta There were only the two of us at Mr Gorbachev’s funeral. Through tear-blurred eyes I watched the shovel blade cut through the sods of earth, the hole in the ground growing deeper, rounder, darker. It was a beautiful day for a funeral. Not ominous or gloomy. That’s not how death works. It was a bright clear day with nothing between us and that high blue sky. Mr Gorbachev would have loved that sky. It was always Dad’s job to bury the pets. For the past year Dad had started waking in the middle of the night. Mum would find him in the bathroom, dressed and shaved, ready to go. Most times he couldn’t tell you where. Other times it was to the local library though none of us could ever recall seeing Dad read a book. Last week it was Gorbachev. ‘I need to know how to spell Gorbachev,’ he told my mother. ‘We’ll look it up in the morning,’ she said. ‘It’s 3am.’ ‘I need to know how to spell Gorbachev now,’ he insisted. So they had sat together, heads hunched over the telephone screen as they googled up Gorbachev. The next night Dad was up again. This time he went head first through the loungeroom wall. The aged care facility was only a few houses away from where we lived, wedged in between the hospital and the train line. He would be safer there, but when he left we all felt that something in our family had been severed, a
shared history broken, separate futures to be lived. Dad didn’t want to go. ‘Get me out of here,’ he would say as we waved goodbye. Visits were restricted to an hour. ‘The virus,’ the nurse explained. Some days we only saw him through the fence, long minutes of just staring at each other as a passing coal train obliterated any chance of communication. Mr Gorbachev was supposed to be Dad’s companion. We didn’t expect to bury Gorbachev before Dad. I packed down the soil with the back of the shovel and rolled a stone over the grave. There was a hollow in the top of the stone that we filled with water in the hope of attracting other birds to keep Mr Gorbachev company. We were about to say a few words when the builder arrived. I forgot that he was coming around to fix the hole in the wall. He found us standing over the grave. ‘The bird?’ he asked. I nodded, not trusting myself with words. ‘My sister breeds budgies. I could get you another.’ I wasn’t ready for that. I was wondering how I would break the news to Dad about Mr Gorbachev. I sat down under the shade of Dad’s lemon tree to make the call. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hi Dad.’ ‘How’s Mr Gorbachev?’ ‘He died last night, Dad.’ I couldn’t make out Dad’s response. ‘Sorry, I didn’t get that,’ I said. Dad’s words came down the line slurred and broken. ‘Lucky bastard,’ he said. n
OF WEET-BIX & WILDE Words Emily Harris
Today’s the day. I’m taking the plunge. I’m going to do something I’ve always secretly dreamed about. Yep. Today I’m putting what I want to do first and giving myself permission to sit at my desk and write a novel. Before I start though, I’d better get a jump on the day and pop a load of washing on the line, and now I’m outside I may as well feed the chooks. Oh, and if I don’t water those white petunias I potted last week they’ll be dead by this afternoon. But I draw the line at cleaning the pool which looks like it’s been filled with dirty dam water, again. No, I will not be cleaning that. Today is for my literary pursuits. So, with another load of washing going, chooks sorted, plants watered, I breathe in the excitement of really starting my work of fiction. Having read lots of self-help books on how to commit to a project, I ignore the kitchen bench covered in the remnants of six people’s breakfast and coffee. I ignore the unmade beds and walk straight into the room once known as ‘the office’ and now newly rechristened ‘my writing space’. Here I’ll churn out great literature. Jennifer Byrne will no doubt pore over my novel and want to discuss it on a book show. She might even want to Zoom me in live. In which case, the desk needs a dust, the thumbtacked school notices from
