I felt the motion of Mother’s old rocking chair. Back and forth it swayed beneath my shifting weight. I sipped my tea. The morning air was warm and damp and infused with the musty mushroom smell of decomposing leaf litter. I kept thinking how strange it was to be back in Burton living in my dear brother’s house, and not at all what I’d expected. It was a weatherboard house built in the late 1800s in Colonial style, with double hung windows, the bullnose veranda along the façade a perfect setting for Mother’s old rocking chair.
Inside, a central hallway leads to high ceilinged rooms of Baltic pine lining boards and mountain ash floors. Large, airy, and high on its stumps on Burton’s northern rise, the house has a superior feel. Situated next to the church, it claims status.
I felt sure I’
