Category Archives: Extracts found along the way

Extract from a diary found South of here (13)

We watched you sleep,

The hand of God outstretched,

But in the end,

The sin and shame of your decay

was never yours to hold.

And when the Angel came,

You turned your face to the wall

And you left.


Extract from a diary found South of here (12) – Last Words

These are the last words that I will say to you.

Moving from room to room in the half-light of the house, dust motes caught in the slim shafts of sun slipping through the half closed curtains. I trace the tips of my fingers across old wooden shelves and glance at the photos placed before the books.

Listener’s Library beside the paisley covered high wing back rocker. Reading glasses on the dining room table, half hidden under post and papers. Dirty work shoes at the kitchen door.

Mom is crying softly in the bedroom and Dad is pacing the hall.

These are the last words that I will say to you.

The afternoon shifts westward as hands fold upon themselves, over and over and over. We close our eyes and wait for the ceiling to dissolve away, to reveal the glory of the bright white clouds above, the towering clouds we always knew were there.

In the bathroom, the tooth-brush still rests in the glass beside the toothpaste. Tubes of paste and bottles of pills in the cabinet. Silent in the gloom. I look at myself in the mirror and trace the line back into the past, beyond the foyer and front door, the oak tree and garden gate.


I hear the sound of a window being opened and in the silence, I hear the release, the breath and know the last words have been whispered.

Through the open kitchen door, I hear children playing tennis in the street.

Extract from a diary found South of here (11) – Long Distance Cycling

We cycled until we were certain that the sun had begun to rise -until the sky began to turn from black to deep blue to purple to orange and till the colours began to push back the dark covering of night and all its stars.

It was like we had ridden the curve of light into another realm where the tin roofed houses were smaller than our own, where pink flamingos stood stranded beneath ancient palm trees and thin wire fences rusted in silence through a million winter rains.

Then, at No. 36 Valhalla Street, as the eastern sky changed colour over tin roofs, you said, “Lets go back home. We’ve come far enough”.

And so we rode home with the coming dawn, back into the past.

Extract from a diary found South of here (9) – Suburbia and the end of the world

For a while, the suburbs ended a few blocks west of us.

We used to cycle there, to where the half empty street ran into a dirt cul-de-sac, to where the city puttered out into vacant space.

From there, all the way to the end of the world, it was nothing but empty farm land. We used to cycle there and imagine life beyond the distant hills. (I have a memory of heavy skies and cold wind rushing through the long bending grass. And silence).

Do you remember the day they came with the dozers and graders to extend the road? One of the workers told us that they were building new houses out there and that one day, there would be houses as far as we could see.

Later that afternoon, after the work crews had gone home, we went back and played on the machinery, until it got dark.

Then you threw a stone at one of the graders, breaking a tail light. You hated the idea of being surrounded by strangers, other people’s homes, their noise.

I have been back there, since. Without you.

I could not find where the tar had ended and the dirt began. The low ridge of hills in the distance is now covered with big, expensive houses.

Dad says it’s a golfing estate.

Later, I went back with my daughter, after the sun had set and threw a stone at one of the street lights.

Extract from a diary found South of here (5)

3 July

You have been gone a while now and I find myself thinking less and less of you. Sometimes I feel guilty, like I have let you down. But I understand. I understand the process. I will never forget you, for you have given me too much for me to forget you:

Salty play-dough, our charcoal drawings that you stuck up on the cupboard doors, your wood fired oven behind the laundry where we hardened our clay cups and plates, the sound of the ocean through the open window at night. Peace.

I never told you that I loved you, yet you showed me all the time. I am sorry. I wish you were here for me to tell you. I miss you. I miss knowing that you are here. Still around.

I remember driving up your steep driveway, hooting from the bottom to let you know we were arriving. I could not wait to get out of the car, to be where you were, to be where that which you offered me was. I have been fortunate to have known you. You have poured out, given more to me than I deserved. 

I have a daughter with you name. She has your joy and I pray that she has your passion. Sometimes I see your eyes in hers when she laughs and I know that you have never left. I still have you. 

Extract from diary found South of here (4)

27 June

It is cold.

This cold has crept upon us suddenly. For a while it seemed that winter had forgotten to come, but then, as we all were happy for the relative warm days, winter came as a thief in the night.

Through the open back door. And suddenly, we find that we are cold and have been for some time now, lulled into some false sense of hope by the mild temperatures. Now it is too late to do anything.

We have a carpet of yellow leaves that the wind collects and swirls across the garden, down the drive way and to our front door. It is as if they too want to come inside for heat.

A cold front came in yesterday, without you. You are warm where you are. I think of you. Not as often as I used too, but I still think of you. There is a hole now, that place where you were. I see people who remind me of you, of your space and habits.

I have them still, these memories. In that, I am fortunate, I am fortunate for having known you, for having experienced you.

The hose pipe hangs from the tree, so that it does not freeze on the frosted ground.