He holds a freesia in his fat little hand. I feel it brush against the back of my arm as I carry him on my back. I feel like the mammals we are when we do this.
I watch our long shadow, a two-headed beast full of innocence and rage. We walk like this on Guringai Country, swiveling our necks in wonder. I let myself be renewed by the landscape. I soften into it. I love the city but it does things to you. I’m like a toddler, stopping every few paces to take a photo, to look closer.
I like the daintiness of bush flowers. Quiet and strong, smelling like honey. Or is it the honey that smells like the flowers? A childish way of thinking that I’ve either relearned or held onto.
Mum shows me spider grevilleas. A perfect name. I wonder what their true name is.
We find a fallen nest, caught in a clump of privet. It’s tiny, and fits in my palm. Mum thinks it fell from the gum tree above.
‘What made it? A wren?’
‘I think so. Must be.’
We take it with us and I tell her its name: ngurra. The same word for camp; for home.
‘How do you spell it?’
The same question I would ask. Strange to spell out a word that was never meant to be written.
‘Nest. That’s nice.’
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