Dorrington

He found himself here, at the bridge. Had it been 25 years? He heard the gentle trickle of the creek and the shuddering of traffic overhead, and remembered his grandad leading his sister and him into the shallow, clear water in search of watercress. He remembered the clumps of weeds they would grasp and eagerly present for inspection, and mostly disappointment (though barely for a second).

And here was that same trickle of water and rumble of tyre on bitumen, though now he saw the detritus of both: the broken chair and plastic sheet caught in a fallen tree, the mucilaginous ooze of oil from the roadway above creeping across the timeworn concrete. 

He turned and saw now the park, and was struck with a memory of senses: the taste of freshly cut grass mixed with sweat and blood; the smell of wet eucalyptus bark steaming on parched earth; the sting of a cool breeze on sunburn, finally blooming in the shadowed green corridors beside the field. He saw snippets of bike races, skinned knees, a basketball thrown and missed (derisively, both); heard the crackle of supermarket sausages thrown on a too hot barbecue.

And with them, a flush of feelings, as jumbled and interwoven as the senses; a tangle of cords dredged from the deep in his mind. Here, regret and despair; here, love and fear; here, sadness and hope; a skinned knee and excitement; the tear of paperbark and anxiety.

How was this still here, contained in this place? Why had walls not been erected, the houses not boarded up, and roads not cut?

Instead, it lay open, unreckoned; free for all, for him, to enter, unimpeded, unprepared.

For what, he wondered, was there to reckon with? The cut grass and sweat, the eucalypt and despair? The faceless, nameless slights of childhood? The careful braking of a car avoiding a pigeon; the hurried arrogance of the next?

He stood at the edge and stared beyond. Here was where they would need to part. He helped the child down off his back, and held him. Did he envy his tiny world, constantly cycling but never changing?

He pointed the child back to the bridge, back to his sister and grandad and the vain search for watercress and, sighing, stepped back into his world.