1.
He came to our house.
With his wife and kids.
They were from Melbourne.
Everything was better there.
Same as my dad.
Steel-eyed Italians.
Crisp slacks.
Ironed shirts.
Leather loafers.
He used to be blond.
Eyes that were hazel.
He looked different from us.
Our coffee eyes and blackened skin.
Strange among our strangeness.
He was from Rome.
He worked on the trains.
That’s all I knew back then.
At the kitchen table.
Talking work or politics.
Other things that were serious.
2.
He was smoking.
He was always smoking.
And talking in a deep voice.
‘Ti piace banana?’
I frowned.
‘You like this bananas?’
I was suddenly unsure.
‘Yes?’
‘This bananas,’
He expelled a thick plume of blue smoke,
‘This are good for you, yes?’
I tried to peel it, but it wasn’t ripe.
I broke the end with my teeth.
The starch bitterness curled my lips.
He took another deep drag of his cigarette.
Eyed me suspiciously.
‘You don’t like me, do you?’
3.
I looked at my mum.
Her perm and blue summer dress.
I wished she would say something.
I lowered my gaze.
‘Yes … I do.’
He smiled just halfway.
Like he knew.
Stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Life. It isn’t perfect, you know?’
That’s what he said to me.
I was ten years old.
4.
He lived in Broadmeadows.
Me and my brother.
We stayed there one time.
The streets.
Cars with no wheels.
Strange mongrels on thick, rusty chains.
The neighbours.
Like zombies.
All out on front verandahs.
We watched The Twilight Zone.
In silence.
On a black and white TV.
Our zia made pancakes.
Too thick and full of sugar.
I got homesick and cried for our dog.
We didn’t see him much.
He was at work.
Checking the axles.
Once the bodies were taken away.
That was his job.
But I didn’t know that back then.
5.
Two weeks ago.
First time in years.
The last time too.
Like a small bird, laid sideways on the bed, gasping for breath.
My zia tried to feed him.
A syringe of pureed food.
There were no machines.
No flashing lights.
Just nurses who turned him over.
Before I left, I went to him.
His pale eyes locked in some distant, serious concern.
And I told him something.
6.
His funeral was in West Melbourne.
St Mary Star of the Sea.
Same church he got married in.
They fought like stray cats.
Till they got divorced.
For a while after too.
The priest was a Spaniard.
Talked of prayers and confession.
Of Hell and of Heaven.
My zio was an atheist.
7.
The burial was in Sunbury.
A tiny cemetery.
Out past the airport.
Miles from anywhere.
In a dense, sticky moment before summer.
We were all in bad suits.
And poly-cotton shirts.
Planes thundered on descent.
So loud and so close.
You could almost touch them.
The earth shook violently beneath our feet.
And I’m sure we all wondered the same thing.
8.
The priest was in a rush. So it all happened quick.
We dropped red roses.
They lowered him down.
As a plane erupted through the clouds.
And one of the straps broke.
9.
‘Just pretend I’m not here.’
What the gravedigger said.
As he jumped on the coffin.
Stomped it into place.
10.
In the car park we gathered.
Shifting feet.
Bad sunglasses.
Unsure how to leave.
I told my zia it was a good service.
‘It didn’t go perfect,’ she said.
I kissed both her cheeks.
‘He wouldn’t expect that.’
Another plane boomed through the sky.
I looked up this time.
Watched its steep descent.
All that violent, beautiful disruption.
Of departure and arrival.
