In the Year of Our Lord, Our Dear Lord, I continue to procrastinate.
Sitting in the driver’s cabin of a Metro train about to leave Lilydale Station, Bronwen Miller never regretted chucking in her well paid job in ‘bullshitland’ public relations to become a train driver, where she derived a basic contentment in helping people get from A to B.
The venetian blinds made that metallic whishht sound as Mum yanked the cord, pulling the slats up like a demented accordion and flooding the room with light. Dust motes floated in the air and resettled on Grandad’s side table. His glasses sat there. Not his proper ones – we were still waiting on some of his stuff to be sent home from the hospital, and he was wearing his proper glasses when the ambulance came and took him. At least we think the glasses were at the hospital. I don’t think funeral homes hang on to that sort of stuff.
Once upon a time, in a deep dark forest, there was a house. It could be called a house only in the most tenuous way in that someone one once lived there for a while. For a short while. And then they rapidly didn’t. But this is not a story about them, although they are part of the decor.