Last trip to Teralba, we built a bonfire. On went ruined mattresses, rat eaten artworks, broken bedposts, termite ridden floorboards, junk, memories, the lot. After a week, the fire was ready to burn. Friends and relatives drove to gather and scatter Dad’s ashes by the apple tree, and afterwards we feasted and set this alight.
The ashes were rougher than you’d think ashes would be. I’d imagined a fine dust, but they were chalkier, bittier, bonier. I’m still not reconciled that it was him we scattered. So much remains surreal.
Everyone had a different ashes-scattering style. Some walked a circle round the tree, some hurled into the wind, others the grass. Some poured wine, others beer, most tears. Someone kept a bit of him in their pocket, another took a handful to another friends grave. I did a bit of grass scattering combined with a tree rub.
When darkness fell and stars arose, we lit the fire with a healthy dose of kero. It burned fast, tall, fierce. We all stood back and watched, agog. After some time it settled down and we all came to sit around, drinking wine, sharing stories, thinking of Kim. Hard to believe he wasn’t standing somewhere nearby, holding a wine, eyes squinted, laughing, there in his happiest place.
My mum took this photo of me standing in front of that fire, the day before we burnt it down. This is the place of my earliest memories, and now it’s the place where my father lies. 30 years earlier he was strong, fit, happy, building the house you see at the top of the hill with mud bricks made using his own two hands. I’m around that same age now, and can see him in this picture of me, a little bit. Next week he would have been 64.
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