Bendigo, November 2022 and Musk, January 2023
Long ago you planted a book in my hand or perhaps I was holding it already. Either way the moment was captured in your parched, fledgling garden.
I find the photo in a shoebox, one of the few in focus, and scan the picture for safekeeping as soon as I can.
Zooming in on the book, the title is too pixilated to discern, but a koala illustration is clearly identifiable.
Books dot my childhood landscape.

Decades later the tables swiftly turn. You ask me to drive you to Bendigo, one last time, for a soft-cup bra. The reflection in the fitting room mirror is stripped of the slightest fullness.
Before heading home, I suggest we order lunch at a nearby café. Food untouched, you walk to the adjacent bookshop before returning with a brown paper bag which you purposefully place between us. You deflect my query as to what is inside the bag.
Driving through Guildford you say something about heavy rain . . . the El Nino weather and distant trees. It’s hard to see past you, but Coldplay registers. You’re yellow.
A few days after you die, I slide open your top wardrobe drawer and find a four leaf-clover bookmark planted in a familiar brown paper bag. A signpost lighting the way.

Stereo Story 879
See also:
Castle on the Hill story by Kate
Yellow, poem by Michael Leach
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