Gavin Austin
Stolen
A raft of froth grows beneath the gushing sink tap. Jean reaches and touches the silken bubbles, tries to hold them in her palm. She lowers a cup, saucer, and teaspoon into the soapy water. The cup drifts for a moment before foundering. She grasps it and gently runs the dishcloth over its surface.
blond curls
in a chink of sunlight
silver frame
Unfolding a freshly laundered tea towel, she retrieves and pats dry the floral saucer. Taking the cup in her hand, she relives that Mother’s Day. Long before the morning he left to meet his schoolmates. With a forefinger, she traces the outline of hand-painted gardenias.
watering can
the picket gate
opens to memory
Detached in the hushed crowd, Jean sits slumped with words washing over her. The parents of the driver cannot meet her eyes. She keeps her gaze focused ahead, shutting out the tears and sniffles of teenagers. Shutting out the soaring music as the chaplain ceases speaking. She concentrates on trying to ease the shoes pinching her feet. Dropping her gaze to the flower pinned to the lapel of her tweed suit, she allows the flicker of a smile as sweet perfume fills her nostrils.
About the Author
Gavin Austin lives in Sydney, Australia. Gavin writes short fiction, short plays, and poetry. His work has appeared in many Australian and international publications.
Like a great concerto, this haibun is paced beautifully in three movements, skillfully leading us to its emotional core with the right amount of foreshadowing that allows each act to breathe independently and then become one with the whole. Well done.
Dear Gavin,
AS the haibun began to reveal each layer, my emotions’ felt each step of the way, until I was holding back my tears, as it is so beautifully written. There is nothing one can say , only feel. Many Blessings, Karina
Many thanks to J Hahn Doleman and Karina Klesko for their kind words here. They are very much appreciated.
Gavin Austin