The old pepper tree still stands, with its tangles of branches and explosions of pink pepper berries whipping about in the hot dry wind. The roughly ploughed fields release an unsavoury smell of rotting vegetables, weighted down by their own stench and mould. I stand a few metres away from our old dilapidated fibro family home, taking it all in. A crow is sprawled on the dirt track, its body bubbling under the sweltering sun, and I watch as bluebottles weave a gauze of sound around its carcass. I sicken and turn away.

***

You love to sit in the shade of the river bank at the back of the property. There, where the weeping willows drape with trailing branches, speckled sunlight casts fat dots that burst out from between fluttering foliage. Dragonflies dart over sparkling water, while pelicans bob silently, up and down, up and down.

I am startled out of my reverie by the grating caw of a cockatoo flapping through the hot blue sky and I notice the breeze has shifted, bringing pungent tones and rankness that excites the black buzzing blowflies. The smell makes me think how awful it would be to forget to put your garbage out for a week in this heat. Grimacing, I think of decomposing rubbish, liquid shit, and maggots in the bottom of the bin. Heat wraps around me in whispering notes and, with a lump in my throat, I focus on why I am here.

***

Black boots descended down the garden path one day. Looking up through the glass pane I saw two sets and then the blue heavy fabric clad legs appeared. They knocked sharply on the door. I jolted and stiffened. I heard my name and I remember nodding as my body shook uncontrollably, then I stepped aside and let them in. They asked me when was the last time I had seen you? Had I spoken to you recently? Was it a month ago or longer? You sounded distant the day I called.
‘Where are you?’
‘Sitting by the river, you should see how high it is now.’ You talked about how fast it was flowing and trailed off. I felt your thoughts wandering. You sounded like you wanted to hang up, but I wouldn’t let you. I miss you so much. Not yet. I’m not ready.
‘Have you eaten today?’
‘Ummm, yeah,’ I can just see you now, the way you chomp down on your jaw, your cheeks puff out slightly and your lips make a smacking noise at the same time your teeth chomp together.
‘What did you have then?’
‘Aaaah, a pie and a pasty.’ You got defensive with me because you know I will nag you for not eating right. I know you are tugging at your ear now, the way you always do when you get irritated. I feel you growing distant so I don’t push the point any further. We make light-hearted banter to try to gloss over your irritation and my heart lurches at how kind–hearted you are. You always worry about what the other person is feeling. You start to thank me for calling but I quickly cut in to try to keep you on the phone. It only draws more meaningless small talk out and eventually you go quiet. We say our good-byes, and I labour on the ‘I love you’ part. We always tell one another how much we love each other. It’s time to hang up now, but I can’t do it, so I press the phone closer to my ear and listen as you make rustling noises and sigh heavily, then I hear the unexpected. You think I have hung up, but I haven’t, I am still here, and I hear what you say, and I hear great heaving sobs that release all of your pain and frustration. Emotions churn like a fast flowing river, swollen and murky.

I am snapped back to reality with someone trying to make small chit-chat and then I hear someone talking on their mobile telling someone else at the other end that they have located me, then they are giving me some details and they are gone, walking back up to the road. Slowly I lower myself onto the cold lifeless tiled step at the end of the entranceway and I feel the iciness of the slab rise up underneath me.

***

Driving home on the wide open bitumen road I feel separated from the rest of the world. The car windows are wound down and the wind makes a whooshing noise as the car rises and falls with the dips and undulations of the road. The white centre lines rise up from the shimmering road ahead, dance with the locusts then disappear again under the bonnet of the car.

I take in the trees, fence-posts entwined in rusty barbed wire and the occasional sleepy lizard lazing on the side of the road, but like the white lines, they come into view for only a second and then they are lost in the landscape behind me. The only signs I have that any world exists outside the car are the tiny homesteads set back in the vast land and the pungent hint of a rotting kangaroo carcass somewhere in the scrub as I pass.

I feel the vibration of the road through my clenched fists as they grip the steering wheel. The sky looms large before me and I think of you. Your weathered face and blue eyes spring up before me. I hear your infectious laugh and picture the way you relax back into the chair and cross your arms. When you are deep in thought you have this way of chomping your jaw together, and it makes your cheeks flare out.

***

With slow steps I enter the house, my reflection slides over panes of glass and my footsteps sound flat and dull on the wooden floorboards. How I longed for you to be there, to hug and reassure me, to feel your warm body and to hear your voice. The air turns stale and a dry heat oozes up from below. Sunshine trickles in through gaps of the drawn heavy blinds here and there as I edge my way around the gutted empty shell of our family home staring blankly at the once familiar interior. I stand for what seems like a long time, staring and smelling, trying to place where objects used to be in the room. I have trouble remembering how the furniture was arranged, and what pictures had hung on the walls, where now there is just a dirty outline. I take in chipped door frames, faded paintwork and a broken window ahead of me, through which I imagine seeing you stoop down to pat your dog, its dry dusty coat sending up a cloud at the contact with your calloused rough hands. Your jaw set firmly as you slowly straighten and cast your eye to the horizon, reading the weather. The flapping of a loose tin sheet on the shed outside makes me conscious of the world around me again and I am standing at your bedroom doorway. I look down at the jarrah floorboards – at the silhouette of your body stained into the wooden floor.

Wendy Otero lives in Adelaide, South Australia and is a freelance writer. She studied business and arts at Flinders University, during which time she discovered she had a passion for writing and won 1st prize at the Langhorne Creek Writers’ Festival. She is a member of the SA Writers’ Centre and her latest project is a creative non-fiction piece set in South Australia.