4338.204 · July 23, 2018 AD
Goodnight, Daddy
Rose likes Grandma and Grandpa's house. It smells like Weet-Bix and crushed flowers and something warm she can't name. The clock whispers secrets she's not big enough to understand. The cupboard has a ghost who might just be lonely. And somewhere in the dark, after the lava floor game is over and Mack's breathing has gone slow and heavy, she whispers goodnight to two things she can't quite reach — one in the cupboard, one further away.
Everything in Grandma and Grandpa's house is old and mismatched and a bit grumpy, but it never shouts or slams doors or cries in the bathroom when it thinks no one's listening. The couch hugs you if you stay still long enough. The clock complains about the news. The hallway tile looks exactly like a dinosaur if you squint right, and Rose has named him Gerald.
Tonight, she and Mack are astronauts launching into space from a fold-out bed that sighs when you sit on it. Tonight, the floor is lava and the cupboard holds a ghost who might have been a child once, waiting for someone to tell him a bedtime story. Tonight, they're counting stars through foggy windows while the winter wind whispers secrets through gaps in the window frame.
But under the games and the giggles and the doona that smells like cupboard, questions wait in the quiet. Why hasn't Mum come yet? What was Mack about to say before he stopped himself? And why does thinking about Daddy make her chest feel tight in a way she doesn't have words for?
