1. THE DAWN
Helen always begins with THE DAWN.
At 5:30 a.m., clad in her terry-towel robe, Helen stands on her veranda and watches the light rise. Leaves define themselves from the shadows. The night mist over the lake starts to lift. She watches until, on the opposite bank, the lean trunks of the gum trees glow in the morning light.
The dawn is reliable. Without fail, every morning, it arrives. Helen thinks that when she was young, the dawn was faster, somehow. Easily missed. Now, the dawn is slow. Helen used to say that the dawn was for Geoffrey and his birds. But now it belongs to her.
2. KOOKABURRA
The kookaburra comes at seven. By now, Helen has moved indoors and is drinking her morning tea. She hears the bird laughing on the veranda. Geoffrey would have loved the kookaburra. For bird watchers, kookaburras are a dime a dozen. But Geoff wasn’t like other birders, who crossed off species upon encountering them, as if the natural world were a checklist to complete. Geoff’s was a world of chaotic abundance.
When she was a little girl, Helen and her mother had fed the kookaburra that visited their garden. Helen can picture her mother’s hand, a lump of pink mince balanced on her outstretched fingertips. She remembers the soft dampness of the meat on he r own fingers, her mother touching her wrist and reminding her to hold steady, the sharp pang of awe that went through her as the bird darted its beak overherhand to take the meat, so close to the soft skin on the pads of her fingers.
NELL PIERCE is the author of the novel A Place Near Eden, winner of the Australian/Vogel’s Literary Award. She has an MFA from The New School in New York City and currently lives in Melbourne.
When Helen shared this memory with Geoff, his face, as she spoke, became expressionless. This was a side of Geoff that Helen had come to know over the years. Before she’d finished the story, she’d already started bracing herself.
Geoff was silent for a while. “It’s very cruel, actually,” he said, at last, “to feed birds mincemeat.” His face was hardening. “It will catch in their beaks and rot. And then their children will die from brittle bones, from calcium deficiencies.” His voice had become tight.
“I don’t know why you always have to be like this,” Helen said. “You always get so angry about things that are so distant.”
“I’m not angry,” Geoff said. “I just think it’s important that you know.”
“The bird was healthy,” Helen said. “You weren’t there, but it kept coming back, year after year. It was fine.”
They’d gone on to have a big fight, and Helen had stormed out. This was how things usually went. She walked down the dirt road along the lake, fast at first, then a little slower, looking out at the water, which appeared between the trees, until she felt calm enough to go back to the house.
“Why did you get so angry?” Geoff asked, after they had hugged, as they always did.
When she didn’t immediately answer, Geoff carried on. “You’re too emotional,”
