My Santiago

Not so much what she said But how ! Younger than her years, Echoes of contentment, insistently positive!

But her voice was sad That listless dawn, in ’63, In our Police Training School home. I, too young to understand, Sensed that morning was less than normal. Foreboding, light approached, Listless, Silent,

Cloying heavy on the heart. And her voice, at my bedside, Full with the sound of tears As she coughed out angry words, “Dad’s been arrested”!

Those words, that voice, The end of childhood.

That voice, that time, those tears, Hold me to her and bind me to my years.

And then, those times of levity, As she would direct – imperiously - Her testosterone - fuelled teenage son; “if they come to tackle you, Throw the ball up in the air and say, ‘anybody’s ball’”. And how she would laugh, (I hear it now) At her own piece of ‘wit’. And it was her voice That held her disappointment at bay, That evening, in 2001, In Edwardstown, When I broke the news to her That I had been offered the position, At the school, in Adelaide, And yet, I would not be accepting it; Not returning home. Yet, She understood, accepted and rejoiced for me; Even then!

And when I held her, In their ‘last’ bedroom, On that morning of his funeral;