We wound up over the road in the local park. Ostensibly this was to watch the hang gliders, but more accurately my brother had a six pack and he'd be damned if some B&B was going to stop him drinking it. Dad was happy to help.
The lip of the hill was dotted with families on picnic rugs, with kids slipping down the deeper incline. This slope of shining grass ended in tufts of bush, bordered in by the tops of gum trees. Country side spread out below. It was quiet. Everyone seemed to speaking only when necessary; even the kids were wrestling in hushed tones. Everyone’s heads were faced outward, but I couldn’t see a thing.
There was maybe a sudden flash of a wing; the flat colour of it standing out against the complicated shadows and light on the ground. But then it was gone. On the hillside a few hang gliders were fiddling with their outfits and apparatus. Kids were hauling one another up and down the incline. People muttered to one another, still looking out to the country side.
‘Well’ I said, to no one in particular. I was bored but didn’t want to say it. It was times like these you’re supposed to ‘take in the scenery’. It was a ‘Still call Australia Home’ moment. And it was with my family, after all. I imagined the fifty year old me (now there’s a purposefully blurry image) looking back on this moment and regretting my boredom, my basic refusal to enjoy the moment. I looked back out to the hills and the horizon, which were now covered in afternoon light, trying to focus.
‘Well this is shit.’ That was my brother.
‘So boring.’ That was my Mum.
‘Yeah...it’s not the best....’ My Dad.
‘So boring.’ That was my Mum.
‘Yeah...it’s not the best....’ My Dad.
We laughed. Our empty beers clunk and threatened to roll down the hill. All four of us ached and strained to get up. We laughed at Dad’s rocking to get up off the ground-he looked like an upturned turtle.
Everything was winding down, younger families were yawning, holding rugs against their chests. They were enjoying the last of the day from the hood of their cars. These were mini-vans and station wagons, family cars with well worn-scratches and toys in the rear-view. Meanwhile Mum and Dad had tottered off down some alley, and my brother was far ahead. I jogged a little but lost interest. ‘Where’s Mum and Dad?’ I called out. He shrugged. I heard them laugh, followed by the tinkling-crash of bottles into a bin. The sound was masked by a passing car, but people still snapped their heads around to stare.
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