Each day, another bit of independence falls away. His piano accordion, once his faithful daily companion, is silent. Dad can barely lift it.
At home and still in my funereal black, I do the obligatory YouTube search for the track. The internet soon shepherds me away from The King’s back-catalogue to a tear-invoking power-ballad from a band I’d followed since the 1990s.
I love my son’s tattoos. The latest addition is the word 'imagine' on his right upper arm.
It’s doubtful Bob Fosse had in mind a conservative calisthenics club in Melbourne’s industrial west when he choreographed All That Jazz in 1975.
Welcome to Centre Stage, where we shine the spotlight on Stereo Stories' most enduring writers.
We engaged Joie's Mazda 818's unofficial air conditioning—two windows down and eighty kilometres an hour—and raised our voices in chat and song over the wind streaming into the car.
Lucia Nardo Melbourne, June 1992 While it is true that in death we travel alone, wherever it is George Michael has gone, he's taken a part of me with him.
Lucia Nardo Family gathering, Melbourne, 1996 I felt a plum-size lump, unyielding to my touch. Dan yelped with pain. That moment is etched in my memory. I knew our lives were about to change. I wanted to push the lump back down, along with all the terror it was about to unleash.
Lucia Nardo Hospital, Melbourne, 2015 There’s only one way to take a diagnosis of cancer in our family. You get on with it. But the day of Martin's surgery, I’m not getting on with it very well.
Le mie memorie in relazione alla musica di mio padre, ebbe inizio quando avevo circa tre anni. Abitiamo in una casa in affitto durante il periodo del dopoguerra, scarsamente ammobiliata, ma allo stesso tempo dava un senso d’abbondanza.