
Despite our grasping, the whole of his life pulsed and seeped through our fingers.
From the heart of him. Moving outwards. Finding the floor. Calling out in a thick scattered confusion of dark, red, shoeprints. Moving away from him in clear plastic spirals. Spattering out into a sucking, flaccid bag that, much later, would be thrown hurriedly into a bin.
And as he began to stir from the dream, an awareness of something other pushed in. A hard, great emptiness, coffee creme gold, deep warm release spreading like fresh bed piss.
Firey copper flecks flashing past, tracking out along a tracer line, to a dawn glow of skewed Vasaline perspective.
Strange to be staring up from the bed, beneath this great tree sprung from his youth. Well remembered footholds, damp moss, soft wicker bark. Strange too, he would remember that rusted bent nail that scarred his calf.
The fractured bough that gave beneath his upside-down showoff, now spread as if in welcoming. The sway of shadow branches flick splashes of blinding spring sunshine into his eyes. All about, squinting through the smell of eucalypt promise.
The foot of the bed seems to ease down, and for the first time in a long time his bare feet touch to a deep solid surety.
Arms out like the tree. Way up high, looking out over a sad dizziness of farewell. Cool granite ledge, sun shower shine, toes hooked over, balls in belly, swaying forward with the pulling.