We are your cousin Alice, who tells the story of Nanna’s funeral;
of how all the cars followed Uncle George in the wrong direction,
while a priest stood by the grave, waiting to conduct the burial.
We are your dad, who you visit on warm summer nights, and he
talks about the old days; when he met mum; when he worked in the
We are the migrant family next door, who laugh till they cry,
telling of how, when they arrived in the fifties, they went to
the milk bar for a gelati. The owner just kept saying “Gilleti”
and offering them razor blades.
We are the Vietnamese mother who
tells you one day how she came to Australia. She quietly talks
of three weeks at sea in a small boat, crammed in with twenty others,
knees to chest, cold, wet and hungry.