No matter how hot it is, they run fast. They make for the mulberry tree, running with gumboots on the wrong feet, intensely aware of their own moving bodies, their faces move and throb with running, their eyes flicker watching the ground drumming under their heels. They are very little.
The mulberry tree is green and attractive but they ignore this. There is a gap and a low, wide branch that is more useful, and they push through and are now gorillas, and they need something intensely which they must think of soon.
They stand on a branch and examine ideas. They make gorilla noises and put bunches of hard infant mulberries to their noses.
One gorilla holds on and commands the other. He needs some sand. The other gorilla climbs down for sand which he then throws up over both of them, and they are pleased. They climb up. They climb down. They are birds. They are gorillas. They are a fence. They don’t live here. They want chips. They might find a nest. One falls and is gripped within a branch and screams for rescue and is towed to the bottom, and then they climb up and try once more with hopeful mouths the sour toes of the unborn fruit. They spit it out with strong, satisfied mouths.
They are covered in dust and leaves, sunlight and heat, sand, sweat and scratches. When the galahs in neighbouring gumtrees screech they go silent and look at each other. They fold their hands around the branches and test their arms. They make bird noises. They need sand. They want chips.
When the cousins talk about Finn, they always say he is too something. The cousins are three, Finn is one. He doesn’t have much authority yet.
‘He’s too small.’
‘He can’t talk.’
‘Finn can’t come because he’s at home in she’s cot because he’s not big.’
‘He’s not strong.’
‘Finn’s lost him’s shoes.’
‘Do him want to come with us?’
‘He’s too loud.’
‘He’s in she’s highchair.’
At the table, Finn eats steadily, bangs a spoon and watches the roof. Noah and Max look on, thinking about it.
They ask me, ‘Is that bread dead?’ Do dogs eat water? Where’s Pa?’
They eat broadly, expansively, and watch each other swallow. They have not finished but they are finished.
‘Can we play trucks now? Not Finn.’ Finn, hearing his name, makes eye contact, unhurried and joyful enough to make them pause.
And say, ‘Look at Finny, he’s looking at us… him can have the train.’
Noah sighs, ‘Yeah.’
There are two children in the playground here.
Two children on a metal whirler with bars for hands and bars for feet and around they go. A girl and a boy, he’s smaller. But with a hoop and a swoop that child was down and it was a beautiful down.
There he lay, stretched out soft as cotton across the bark chips.
His sister kept spinning. And singing. She swirled her spinney hair in patterns, first one way, then the other and her brother watched. Then he stood up and said, let me. She said, it’s my moon.
She swirled three more times for authority, then another and another and he waited round and round patiently round.
Then she stopped and allowed him on. They whirled together, locked eyes, orbits on, leaning back, caught in roundy rings and sibling hoopy blur.
Sculpture ‘Ebb and Flow’ by Alison Bell