However it happens, I’m awake in the deepest sigh of night with my heart is full of her. Perhaps one of them falls into my shelter. Stars tumble faintly where the moon can’t reach. Miraculously, there is no rain, the night is clear as spun glass. The moon sings me awake, or maybe Blaise does. I’m more of a wild creature, burrowing into the earth, nesting with my nose to my tail, smelling the earth. I’m not super organised like Mike and Kate, I don’t naturally file and sort to feel safe. It’s a laborious process. Strewn detritus explodes everywhere, boots and gear, loops of paracord ready for my shelter build, dry tinder and firewood stacked in haphazard piles, a bed of heaped wattle sprigs barely keeping my possum coat off the wet ground, and uncomfortable as fuck to sleep on. I crawl into what serves as a bed the night before her birthday, quite early. I knew she’d turn up on her birthday, because she does, every year, wherever I am. As the drop date crept closer her birthday sang through the hectic rollercoaster of preparation, loud and true, a pure note ringing through an empty hall, calling me to her. I can’t remember when I realised her birthday would land out there. It was her birthday, you see, when I was out there in the mud and those vast, inky, icy nights. Clomping around in someone’s shoes, probably one of the abandoned pairs in my closet, those I never wear but hang onto in case there’s a wedding.Īlone episode four screened last night. Usually she arrives later, randomly, flitting around the corners of my vision in a waft of wild titian curls and some delightful concoction of tulle and stripes, handbag and feather headband, sunglasses to complete the ensemble. It’s years since her ghost has been this solid when I wake. She was right there in the bed like she never left, arms and legs akimbo, head burrowed into my armpit like a forest creature.
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