She’s rushing around the house, loading containers with food for grandkids, looking for where she moved the tea towels to in the kitchen clean up of yesterday, and calling out to him what time they need to be at Chadstone.

He’s asking when are they going to go get coffee? It’s their ritual. It’s their time. In between committments to others.

It’s manic. It’s a whirlwind he can’t calm.

He says he just doesn’t matter anymore. He picks up his guitar and plays quitely. It’s out of tune, but he doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care.

I observe, filling out the crossword in yesterday’s newspaper, scribbling on the comics in between thinking and waiting for the revelation of the right word.

I’m like him. I never realised how much so until these last three months. He scribbles too. He draws and doodles whenever there’s pen and paper lying around.

She’s ready to leave.

The garage door closes. I exhale; silence. Except for the hum of the dishwasher.


2 thoughts on “Scribble

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