- Coming Home
- by Coral Hull
I drove out from Melbourne just on dark and ended up sleeping at a truck stop,
or a petrol station with the dogs at 2.00 am, because they wouldn't take us in
at the caravan parks, the next morning blue sky, the dogs brisk with cold wagging
tails, true-bluer than ever, the relief of a new morning lifted us, later that
day we was in Bre with dad, next day we drove to Bourke from the Twin Rivers property
to get some shopping at Payless, we took an esky for frozen food, coming home,
we were surrounded by high grass and outnumbered by tiny birds darting in and
out, that night we hit the town, dad was pissed, telling all the kooris about
their past, about King Brewarrweena outside the local rodeo, grabbing at their
shoulders when they didn't want to listen. Dad said, 'you arrived home with your
two dogs thinner, two jerry cans, a water container and sleeping bag, too tired
to hold onto dreams and deserts, mosquito net lines stretching your shoulders,
arrived home without the words to reveal your experience, your clothes ripped
in places, the odd little postcards of your damaged skin, the big arid land gave
you the chance to come back ragged and start again, they'll never really know
what happened to you out there, you have given up trying to tell them.'
Dad and Dean Steadman picked me up in Nyngan, I was coming home from a long
trip inland, they said 'here comes the vagabond,' my backpacks filled with opal,
an old hat on, dad was drunk just on midday again, took me to the Brewarrina hospital,
he said, 'She's got the gang-green,' because my legs were swollen around the ankles
from excess fluid retention, dad's words for the local drunks are: 'blood-sucker',
'pub-bum', 'hotel-idler', and 'cadger', I daydreamed on the Telstra wires from
inside the car as we drove - how the distance in Australia is evident still, particularly
between families and its effects on personal space. We are mainly spaced-out and
dreaming.
