The bed is unmade. A few books are stacked on a shelf near the window. By the side of the bed, a carved wooden table holds up a bowl of objects: a penlight, a matchbook, a deck of cards. Next to the bowl is an unstamped postcard of the Jack Evans Porpoise Pool in Coolangatta. My brother picks it up and flips it over, looks at it without expression. He turns and gazes out of the window for a few seconds, then places the card face down on the table and moves on. I stretch over to read the card. It is addressed to our father. I recognise the discreet writing, the gradual lean of the letters. I follow the movement of words, jumping from one to the other, knowing, with every line, that this is my Great Grandmother’s handwriting. Maybe this was the last thing she wrote? Maybe the last thing she touched? Then I have to stop thinking. I mustn’t imagine the words she was going to write. I prop the card up against a book. It stares back at me, never sent, never filled in.
she took with her