Mum moves like rinse water—
warm, grey,
going where she’s poured.
Hands red-raw
from bleach and bones
she can’t scrub clean.
She hums when she’s bone-tired,
not for tune,
just to keep from cracking.
Dad says work is hard—
but only ever sits,
rail grease on his boots,
beer in hand,
trophy beside him:
Highest Goal Scorer,
1983.
He holds it like a wound
that never scabbed.
Says he could’ve been something
if Mum hadn’t—
if I hadn’t—
Doesn’t say the rest.
He just drinks.
Then one day—
a yellow dress.
Hand-me-down.
Sunlight sewn into thread.
Mum steps into the yard
like she’s forgotten
someone might be watching.
Strips to the greying cotton of her
and pulls the yellow on—
slow, soft,
like trying on a life
that didn’t happen.
She twirls once.
Eyes closed.
A ghost of a girl
smiling through the cracks.
Then boots.
The back door slams.
Slut
In a voice like wire.
The dress tears in two directions—
fabric, then her.
She clutches the scraps
to the parts of her
he once loved.
And shrinks.
That night—
beer cans breathing,
trophy glinting
under weak kitchen light.
He slumps.
Mouth open.
Gone.
I take the trophy,
glass warm from his hand.
Step barefoot through bindii
to the path.
Raise it.
It catches moonlight
for a second.
Then gone.
The sound is clean.
I lay the shattered pieces by his chair,
like they fell
when he groped
for the past
and missed.
Ryan Stone
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