A man remains in his car while his mother is buried.
What I know of them is unreliable, a cousin to truth.
A woman examines the cracks in her brother's new lino squares.
Shadows of my father, they come alive in stories.
There are people walking across paddocks banging saucepans.
A silver watch belonging to an uncle, the thickness of his wrist matching mine.
A man buries his mother, and then two days later, his wife.
My aunts were better hand-milkers than my uncles.
A man returns from a bout in hospital to a unit in Murtoa.
At what point does the fiction begin?
At twenty-nine, a man dies on Christmas Day.
Eventually, truth becomes a matter of the last remaining voice.
Two sisters are serving in the rail canteen at Camperdown.
My father thumping the table just before the News.
A woman drives the same car for thirty years.
Some stories couldn't be told in front of children.
The apiarists were travelling south through the Wimmera to recruit workers.
After the first deaths, my father's stories became funnier.
He is a man who will work one day, sit around for the next four.
They would call in unannounced and my brother would hide in the wardrobe.
When you sat down at the table, there was always a dog darting out between your legs.
In a crowded city gallery, the country is on the walls, on their faces, in their football conversations.
A man is carried out of church on the shoulders of his sons.
Voices rising from pools of water.