6ai.

2017, a letter

Hey sis,

I was saying to J. yesterday that you’re the only family member I would call my friend.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this on the google doc. Not that I think you’d mind.

Can we get coffee next Saturday morning?

6aii.

2017, a letter

Hey sis,

Do you ever feel as if mum, dad, and brother are a group, and you and I are a group, and it’s unclear if anyone bridges the gap between the two?

Sometimes I think dad has no idea that you and I have an actual functioning friendship. He said “you need to do a better job of taking care of your sister” the other day. Maybe he thinks his two “smart kids” (his words) are in competition with one another. We both know that if it were a competition you would be winning.

It’s like we are the Olympic rings, and we’re the two on the bottom row, and we have this secret where we've detached from the rest of the rings.

I don’t think you would like this one… it’s not my most inspiring metaphor. I’ve also just looked up the rings, and the only overlaps are between top rings and bottom rings, which sort of compromises the idea.

6aiii.

2017, a letter

Hi sis,

In year 3 I had a creative writing task, and one of the instructions was to integrate our own life into the story. I’m sure Mr. Thomas wouldn’t have used the verb ‘integrate’ with 8 year olds, but he loved telling us about journalling. This memory is salient only because mum was angry that dad was in this story rather than her. This particular 8 year old's memoir used some dreadful imagery to talk about dad as a house keeping me safe, and somehow also a window in that same house, allowing me to see and explore and fail in the world.

The reason I think of that story at this particular moment is because I wonder if you’re the window? When the three of us were listening to music earlier today, it reminded me of sitting in your room, processing heartbreak, or elation, or grief, or anything with our CD collections. As we were driving back to J.’s house I told her about this, and she said “I think I understand why the only person in your family who we spend a lot of time with together is your sister.” Was there a story in my life that came to light in our parent’s house other than the one’s that entered through your bedroom window?

A few months ago I said to J. that of the people I share DNA with, you were my only friend. I’m sure you know more about how much DNA I share with you, and my friends, and J., and everyone. I'm sure you know what I mean. Sometimes I hope the same is true of you.

6aiv.

2018, a letter

Dear sis,

Do you remember in 2015 how you asked me to show you my ‘songs of the year’ playlist, as we usually do, and there was that song which we listened to and you said “take that off this playlist, it’s uncompelling”.

J. & I listened to that song today.

Last year I told J. that you were my only friend in our family. I realise that could sound lonely.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…

Would you still be my friend if every song on my list was “uncompelling”? Will you still be my friend when we live out of home? Would you still be my friend if we lived in different cities? Would you still be my friend even if J. & I were married? Not that it’s likely to happen anytime soon, or ever, or that you would care, I think?

I know you said sentimental looks a bit desperate on me. But you know that this is how I move through the world. Sentimental, not emotional. Trying in secret, but still trying. Reminiscing for its own sake, rather than to teach a lesson. Every song, every story, every interaction a reflection of some innate capacity we have to make meaning out of nothing.

I never took that song off my playlist. Maybe the key to our relationship is being both similar enough and different enough? I’m sad we haven’t swapped our 2017 lists yet.

6b.

sometime around the present

I don’t read the newspaper anymore, but I can’t imagine they no longer have those pictures of sterile mansions on the front page of the real estate section. Sister says I shouldn’t use double negatives so frequently - “It makes you look unintelligent to smart people, and too smart to unintelligent people.”

A mansion is exactly where my uncle has chosen to plant us for this family holiday. Any stories the house may want to tell are papered over with white walls, appliances, ceramic fruit that is oddly pale, canvases alluding to a digestible version of spirituality, so many bedrooms but none even close to messy or interesting, and yet somehow not enough rooms that I can avoid sleeping on the floor of the laundry.

Everyone’s off at the beach tonight except dad, uncle, a cousin, and me. We’re playing ‘up and down the river’ for money, as is the enforced custom: the money part, not up and down the river - it’s a pretty innocent trick-taking game with some tense moments, but on a different evening it could be poker, pusoy dos (although we only play that with Rico, and he and Sunny aren’t here), snap, or even high card, as long as there is money involved.

After a round where only dad wins his bid, securing it with his final card, he bounces the back of his hand off of my shoulder twice, and then puts his arm around me. He has a beer, probably his third, in the other hand.

Uncle goes to the bathroom. Cousin is consistently swiping his finger along the glass of his phone. I wonder if either of us have asked each other a question other than “how are you?” or “what do you want to eat/drink?” on this trip.


Dad squeezes my shoulder and tilts his head towards me. “Don’t tell your mum that I’m telling you this, but I know about the bee boxes.”


“You and mum never talked about them, or the keyboards?”

He shakes his head profusely.

“How did you feel about it?”


“Terrible son.” He shakes his head again.


Cousin, never removing his gaze from his phone, lies down on a couch.

I lean towards dad. “Hey dad, did you cry when you found out?”


“Not really.”

“Not really?”


“Your mother probably cries more than me.” I imagine that’s not what sister would say is the truth.

“Does it matter who cries more?”


“No. Some people are criers and some aren’t, and I wouldn’t call myself a crier. I do cry. But I’m not a crier. But also I wouldn’t say I’m against it. It’s not like crying is only for women or anything like that.”

I say nothing.

He presses on. “I’m not into that gender stereotype stuff.”

I don’t know what he is trying to do.

He picks up the cards and starts shuffling. “But I just don’t cry much. Your mother…”

“I get it. Crying is OK but you don't cry. Did you cry when you and mum got married?”

“No, but your mother did.”

“Did you cry when we were born?”

“Maybe when your brother was born?” He clears his throat. “Sorry son.” Hopefully he isn’t responding to something on my face.

“Did you cry when he got married?”

“No… but…” He pauses, and as he does, sister’s words from another time phase into the foreground. Mum and brother were out of Sydney. Sister was picking me up from something, telling me she had a really quiet evening. Dad didn’t say a word at dinner. “The closer you get to home, the less dad has to say.” I think dad had been made redundant from a job he liked. Has she always known everyone in this family? “…never mind.”

“No, go on.” I slap his shoulder. “It’s cool.” It’s strange, being like this.

“It’s just… when I feel the worst in my life is when your mother is angry at me. One day you’ll learn this.” I don't think I would tolerate this were it from brother...

“What happened to make mum angry?”

Uncle’s voice comes out of the hallway, telling his “lazy” son to get off the couch and put on his “game face.”

I tap dad’s shoulder as uncle’s figure emerges. “Maybe we could go for a walk dad?”

He squints at me “You’re not gonna keep playing son?”

“Don’t be a flaker” cousin says from over my shoulder.

“You don’t want to be a ‘flaker’ do you?” Dad, clearly infatuated with this word, appears to have no recollection of my history with it.

“OK.”

Between rounds, when cousin pulls out his phone, I start making notes.

'<heading> up and down the river scores

what about brother's wedding made something happen between mum & dad?'

As we play the rounds, I try to understand sister’s timeline.

'why does dad care so much about people thinking he is a crier?'

Based on when dad got the stupid new old car in 2018, and so presumably when mum would have cried, brother's wedding was maybe seven months away.

'why do dad & I never walk together?'

So when ‘you knew first’ happened, if sister’s timeline is correct, that was at least four months before the wedding.

'why was dad so reluctant to talk about the wedding?'

I’m not worried about being called a flaker again, because I’m roughly level with dad and uncle on points, and significantly ahead of cousin.

'why do mum & dad never talk?…
and what does that mean for my relationships?'

I take slightly too long to bid. “Are you flaking again son?”

My cousin swipes my phone. “What’s this? This doesn't look like scores.”

“Yeah, what’s that you flaker?” Dad.

“Ummm… I’m just trying to... to talk to a girl. But I usually write out my replies in notes. You know me, overthinking it.”

“Of course dude.” He throws me my phone back. I leave it pocketed, and lose the game to dad by a point.

I’m lying on the floor of the laundry, facing the stars through the window, listening to a moving acoustic composition which suggests that anytime anyone ever slows down and listens they are taking a beautiful risk.

I hear one loud thump at the door followed by two soft knocks.

“Who is it?”

“Your father.”

“Are you OK?”


He opens the door, and crouches down so his face is above my face.

He drops something on me. “Can you give this to your mother when you think the time is right?”

I fumble around with a cardboard rectangle. “What is it?”

“It’s a letter.” I pause the music. “I’m just saying sorry for something. I feel too nervous to give it to her myself.”

I gently open the flap of the envelope. “Can I read it?”


There is just enough light coming through the window to see him squinting at me. He closes the flap.

Maybe we’re not as dissimilar as I think we are.

He says “good luck with the girl” and slaps me on the right shoulder twice.