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Some weeks after my sister had returned to Sydney, and in fantastic, if unintentional timing, I returned to my boyhood home. I arrived just as the pale light of dawn rose over the misty billabong, where I had frolicked as a child. I lit a fire a little distance away from their cottage, and settled beside it to warm myself and to wait. My thoughts were of those days of so many years ago, spent running in and out to play with my cousins and their friends, of being hoisted high on my father’s shoulders, the wonder of hunting and gathering with all the women and children, and coming home tired after racing ahead of Nan and my mother.
I must have been napping and awoke to see the beaming face of my father. The old man let out a whoop of joy, and we embraced. The face had hollowed; the back
