When Dad sold the farm, he sold his Hilux;
the towbar blocked the new garage door
from closing. He sold his dog.
Throw me in the carcass pit, he said,
back when he could remember
the name of the dog.
Dad left before he knew of my son.
Perhaps they passed each other
on their respective journeys:
Dad would have been scratching the chin
of the tabby sprawled across his moccasins,
or putting in a row of potatoes;
my son, the blaze of light across the frost
when a pocketknife opens, ready
to cut the baling twine.
I watched Dad leave,
a sheaf of barley stalks held firm
by the single bedsheet, his breath
like an airbed nozzle that doesn’t quite fit.
This piece was crafted in 2017 for my Massey University Bachelor of Arts degree, majoring in Creative Writing. You’d be right if you guessed I was not the youngest in my class.
Want to see where my writing is taking me now? Find out here.
