There is a child from the Sudan, with an old man’s face, sitting in the corner of the lounge room. He must have come out of the television set at some time this evening. It’s New Year’s Eve and all the stations have been playing condensed highlights of the year – so many images of poverty and diseases and war from around the globe. Trying to cram so much human misery into a few short hours, it’s no wonder really that something overflowed.
There is a baby in the letterbox! I look at it a moment. It looks back at me. Silently.
Henry Lawson stirs his latte with a distasteful grimace and looks across to see Caroline Chisholm is smirking again.
He stands in front of the mirror and looks into his own eyes, as he might look into the eyes of a stranger. He wonders if his father’s eyes were as dark…