Eight months earlier
GREAT NORTHERN HIGHWAY
February 22nd
The rust-red land is covered in shadows as I drive. In the moonlight, occasional scatterings of shrubs appear, dark stubble on the flat skin of this country. In the distance, hills, or clouds. When I flip on the radio, late-night Aussie rock blares out, and I think of you. Bon Scott has your voice, and you’re screaming at me abouta one-way ride…No stop signs…I shake my head to banish you, change the channel, but you are still here in the car.
I open the window and let in the dust. Outside, a sign warns of flooding, which is difficult to imagine in this snap-dry night, but then the road crosses a sandy creek bed at least ten metres wide, so I guess, in a different season…water and change and new life. Everything shifts, becomes new again. What was the beautiful name for the wet season I learnt at the Kings Park lightshow? My memory is trembling, so much forgetting, and so much withholding. And I feel so scared.
There is no release. There is only this road.