Gavin Austin

Time

You squeal excitedly, a schoolgirl again, as you wrap your arms around me.

Thirty years of life divides us. For three days you have left your quiet hills for my urban canyons. We sit and smile, unsure how to proceed; wait to fill the silence.
 
I peer through the keyhole of memory, past the gatekeeper of days, to when I was an astronaut stepping from the pod onto alien planets. Dark curls bundled beneath a white veil, you bandaged dolls, tended their wounds in a makeshift hospital on the back veranda.

Over a glass of wine, we question the changes the years have wrought, dive into the sea of silence, astronaut and nurse, fearless once more.

the dusty playground
of make-believe
a stick pony
abandoned by the walls
of looming adulthood

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About the Author

Gavin Austin lives in Sydney, Australia. He writes short fiction, short plays, and poetry. His work has appeared in many Australian and international publications.

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