Grandma’s House

The black-ribbon road disappeared, kilometre after kilometre unravelling. The black-ribbon road stretched out far ahead, as stricken tires whispered their protest at the rising heat beneath them.

Late again.

The baby slept, thank Christ.

Cattle stood beneath lonely giants, protected from the blazing sun. Sheltered by the scattered, blue-grey gum trees, struggling against eternity, struggling always to hold up the cerulean weight of the sky.

Paint peeled back, flaking like the drifting debris of paper-barks – peeled back to expose tinderbox wooden houses once again to the brutal violence of summer.

The dry grass beneath my feet. I stepped out from the sanctuary of air-conditioning, stepped into the heat of that oven.

“G’day Chrisso love, about time you got here…”

So, summer is hot in Australia. Again. And I decided to drive my family out to my grand-parents’ house. Out into the country…so damned hot.

Written for this week’s BeKindRewrite prompt Late Again.

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3 thoughts on “Grandma’s House

  1. Tastes like Bradbury. Favorite part: “struggling always to hold up the cerulean weight of the sky.” That bit makes me want to cry.

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