Part 1 of a serialised story by Jess Knaus

The two black cockatoos circled above, rupturing the empty blue sky with their shrieks. Penny observed their path, shielding her eyes from the burnt sun with her hand.

The sign of death.

She breathed deep into her ribcage for what felt like the first time in months. The breath tumbled out, as she tried to untie the knots in her shoulders.

The boxes were in, and the removalists had finally left. Time for their pub run.

The seven hour drive had been a continuance of her perpetual numbness. She was finally, finally, in their new home, but it was just the next step. Just another notch on the clock of their plans.

Until the next crying episode.

Tom had talked about this town with such anticipation. Now she was here, it was as if the lights didn’t work. But she, atleast, was here. Representing them both.

Grabbing the keys she left the boxes to stew, deciding to stroll the nearby bushland for a new kind of quiet. Each step was slow. The grasses brushed against her jeans and gums creaked in the breeze. A wash of dusty green and grey. And soft yellow baby wattle blooms.

New life.

As she wandered she found two sticks, placed them together in the shape of a cross, tied them with strands of a nearby grass tree and slipped the creation into her jacket pocket.

Once back home she pulled out the cross and pressured it into the ground in a shady position by the wattle. A small memorial, in the place he’d wanted to go, but would never see.

She spent the rest of that afternoon on the deck, watching the sun descend, sipping warm water from a glass jar she found in one of the boxes.

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She had a week to begin unpacking and set up their (well, her) new home before her posting would commence. She was lined up to work in the local primary school, starting on Monday.

Box by box she removed the tape, assessed its contents and attempted to find a place for each item. Kettle, kitchen. Cushions, new couch corner. Sheets, linen press. She left his boxes unopened, but placed them in the spare bedroom to come back to later.

No one had wanted her to leave, but she had to go. Tom’s passing had made the pull to the town even stronger than when he was alive. She was determined to carry out their plans, as if backing out was dishonouring his memory. She knew she’d be receiving phone calls, particularly from her father, pressuring her to return. But just as his death had resolved her plans to move, her boundaries had also been reinforced. No one could convince her to stop.

Over the course of the next few days she checked out the main part of town for groceries, the pub and the petrol station. She began to cook meals, still cooking for two but eating the second serve as leftovers.

She began to assess the back garden, its Hills Hoyst, cracked concrete steps and dry grass. She stepped out measurements for garden beds and watched how the sun moved each day to identify the sunniest spots for future vegetables.

Then she would cry. Deep, aching sobs for hours. Like getting the shakes hours after the adrenaline of a car crash. Eventually it would lift and she would have some feeling within her body to keep moving.

She spent as much time as possible in the garden. There were houses either side of hers: on one side she had seen a man and his dog pull up in a ute from time to time, no real chance to say hello; on the other was a white painted timber house with a back patio overlooking the backyard. She looked up to see an older lady watching her. She lifted her hand to wave politely and smile. The lady didn’t wave back, but instead retreated inside her house.

When Sunday rolled around she woke and rummaged a bucket from amongst her belongings, from beneath the gardening gloves and empty terracotta pots. She filled it with water from the tap, pulled some rough grass and dirt to stir and centred it within the yard.

For the two black cockatoos. And their friends.

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Photo by Dalal Nizam on Unsplash