As always, Norman wakes six blinks before the rooster crows out his morning herald. He hefts out of bed and lets his feet find his slippers, totters to the dunny in his saggy Y-fronts. The first rays of light illuminate the furry mass of cobwebs covering the bathroom window, but Norm doesn't notice. He bends to the floor and pulls on the same shorts and blue singlet he's been wearing all week. The fabric is stiff with layers of dried sweat and grease. His body lurches to the kitchen, where he reaches for the kettle and swings the spout under the tap. No water in the pipes. He has repeated this very same act, same realisation, every morning now for over a year.

He leans on the sink, head down and thinks the same thought, ‘Gotta get that bloody pipe fixed. Patch the hole in the water tank.'

He pulls a bottle of Coke out of the fridge and pours it into a grimy glass that sits on the bench. Enjoys the acid burn in his throat. Norm gazes into the kitchen cupboard for a few seconds before his brain catches up. On one side, a dozen family-sized packets of Arnott's assorted biscuits are stacked to the top. Next to the tower of biscuits are shiny columns of canned sardines. He considers his options and reaches for the biscuits; grabs a handful of Scotch Fingers.

When Norm turns to walk outside, an unconscious glance through the door of the dining room stops him in his tracks. Dawn light is streaming through the lace curtains onto the dining table, casting the silver salt and pepper shakers with a celestial glow and for a split second he sees her. Sitting at the table with a teacup and saucer, slender neck bent to the crotchet in her lap.

‘Morning, love,' he whispers, hoarsely.

For a while he stands in the doorway, staring at the empty room. All the fancy glasses in the display cabinet, the white linen tablecloth and doilies, china ornaments, all still arranged as she liked it. His ears start ringing and a shudder barrels up his backbone. He shakes his head, ‘well, better get on with it', and his feet take him out to his boots, then across the yard towards the tractor in the shed. A gust of wind swirls around him and throws dust up to the height of the roof.

Excerpt from ‘Ingrained' by Jo Porter in Follow the Salt (2025, Night Parrot Press) https://www.nightparrotpress.com/follow-the-salt/ 

 

Author Bio: 

Jo Porter is an emerging author, who has worked as a journalist and content writer. Her honours involved a poetic deep map of waterways in Bunbury and the thesis was awarded first class. Her series of seven poems appears in A New Constellation: South West Art Now 2024.