These summer mornings
The sun hits the outside corner of the bedroom
Its lighthot fingers poking in
Through chinks in the curtains and shutters
Making a dot pattern here
and slanting slabs of liquid yellowwhite light there
It reminds me of something
Is it my grandparents’ house for Christmas holidays?
Those little wooden beds in the room I shared with James
Floral coverlets with machined-diamond stitching, and fuzzy wool blankets with those satin edges — both pushed to the floor on hot nights.
Nana made us breakfast
The oriental tin full of her home-made museli. The dry smell of oats and apricots
Perfectly flecked Vegemite on hot buttered toast
The noise of the planes flying over, shaking the summer morning air.
Or is it holiday houses in MacRae?
Houses rented or owned by my friends’ parents, or someone’s Aunty Dot, or Alison’s sister.
That same feeling of waking in a warm room with my brother
not having needed more than a sheet overnight
The languid feeling of summer holidays
Knowing I’ll swim today.