1993 was an odd year.
Jack, born 1910, pegged out.
He had sponsored us as ten pound Poms.
I used to mimic his gait on the farm at Pialligo.
One foot turned out as he walked the furrow.
He would do things directly, by Jingus,
and talk about the Dandelongs and Belconnel
and yell Don’t take the side orf the car! if
you slammed the door of his Austin A60
and had come from working on the railways in Central Australia
to owning a block of shops in Kingston.
Dad seemed at a loss.
Like me he had never been to a funeral before.
Seventy-three and brought up an orphan.
Seven years later he was gone too.