Kahlani Steele

Light moves with me. Around me. I step into it and it glows— a halo along the coast of my shadow. Sometimes, it stalls or vanishes but always returns; a vagabond walking across my skin. Even night-time feigns it like a secret pressed against the dark, until dawnlight walks with me once more.

I clock every crack, every skid, as we walk along the creek bank, the rubber soles of our boots collecting mud and seeds and something rotten. My brother thinks it’s Dad reminding us not to track mud through the house again. Usually, Mum would have a fit, but not lately. Ever since the funeral home, we haven’t seen her smile. It’s still the same routine, though. The breakfast table set, us digging into the Crunchies cereal box fighting over who would claim the latest action figure. And rotten-egg sandwiches for the third day in a row, us throwing them in the school bin in case we got teased. My brother thinks it’s Dad again, this time reminding us how sad Mum was. Back at the creek, mud, seeds, and that foul odour clinging to our boots, we pluck daylilies that weren’t here during our last visit. My brother thinks Dad put them there so Mum could remember him with a smile.

Somewhere in the garden, a window remembers a boy turning pages, while his mother watches. Hanging from an oak, a swing waits, clinging to strong arms that once lifted the child higher than the heavens, his laughter thrown to the skies. A shifting wind flips another page. His mother smiles. A stick recalls poking at bark, as a trail of black ants scurry in every direction. A breeze exhales, and the pages flap wildly. He picks flowers that bloom like a thousand sunrises. Even now, the sunflowers shine. The air stills. Time closes the book, the boy long gone. A mother weeps.