walking slowly downhill
Eighty-ninth Day, December 10, Milang
Ninetieth Day, December 11, Milang
Windswept prairies, sparse grasses, bare trees, sullen green water of a lake that’s neither salty nor sweet, ruined houses abandoned long ago, dull eyes.
I walk amongst this again.
Or is all that the substance I carry in me and then project upon sweetest, kindest lands and their peaceful histories?
It feels like a dream that cannot exhaust itself; it simply resumes its residency in me at different times of the day and night.
In two days the walk along the river from Robinvale to Goolwa will come to an end when I walk into the surf of the Southern Ocean.
Then it will be Christmas once more.
Will I keep walking afterwards?
So many of us will be missing; my eldest daughter healing alone somewhere on the east coast, my father gone now almost two years to the day, my mother four months ago.
Walking has somehow become immanent in the rest of what I am, what I do.
So it won’t end when the river walk ends.
And it didn’t begin when I descended from the snowy slopes of Mount Kosciuszko down into Tom Groggin.
I have more to say about that.
Perhaps when I can speak again I will say it.
Then again, I may not.
Or, someone may not.
It’s gotten dark while I’ve been writing this.
Through the crack of the cabin’s curtains I can see the caravan park light; new moon tomorrow morning will shine unseen over my second-last walk.