Walked down to the strip of cafes that line the street overlooking Bronte beach.
As you wind around the curved main road, you can see the ocean through patches of trees; blue as a dream.
Noting the sunday morning bustle, I took a seat at an empty table at the last little restaurant on the row. This is where we went the morning you arrived and the day before you flew out.
The sun coaxed me out of my long sleeved shirt, I wondered if winter will stay like this.
The little server remembered us and asked if you would be joining me. I shook my head and watched the waves crest and break over and over. It really is beautiful here. Come back soon.
Aussie “Winter”
It rained one day of your trip, not heavy, not constant—just the casual drizzle that could have been the windswept sea spray from the ocean. We sipped coffee, sponging our toast into cage free yellow yokes, bright as the sunshine you brought to Sydney the past ten days. After paying the tab and picking out ice cream treats, we crossed the street down to the beach. A handful of surfers bobbed in the frothy waves. I opened the small umbrella and held it over us both as the rain started to pick up. I thought of all the times we’d coordinate transatlantic phone calls in the past four and a half months and started thinking of all the time that would need to pass before we’d see each other again but stopped myself because you are here now. You are here now. I studied you quietly, taking in your long eyelashes and the rain speckled right sleeve that wasn’t shielded by the umbrella.
“I love you.” Even though we tell each other that often, for some reason it was different like it was the most honest and special thing. Like it was the only thing.
Taken after some cage dancing on Oxford street. God I missed you. Sydney loves you, Allison.
Taken with Instagram at Port Douglas
Reading this Obama news + Listening to Iron and Wine = Breanna cries on public transport. (again).
“After meticulously rolling t-shirts, tank tops, and dresses into compact scrolls, wedging them together, stacked tight and neat as kindling
I stowed swimwear the color of hard candies, two pairs of flip flops,
a year supply of contacts, a box full of scarves fluffed around a ziplock
bag of stones I couldn’t bring myself to FedEx, a glossy black folder-
pockets pressed with goodbye cards, photos, and copies of my favorite poems.
Two 50lb suitcases smile up at me as I debate whether I really need
that pinstripe top (no) or this surfing memoir (yes).
You’re curled up in the covers, in the middle of my bed, just watching me.”
—
That was my last night in Minneapolis just over four months ago and the last time I’d slept next to you. As I studied my meager bookshelf, having either packed, boxed, or given away most of my books, I felt your arms wrap around my shoulders from behind, like slipping on a scarf.
I couldn’t sleep that night, too anxious and wired. The next day you drove us to the post office to ship a flat rate box crammed with 20 pounds of literature. I started crying halfway there. You grabbed my hand and said, “Look around. Look at all this dirty gross snow and just think about where you’re going. You’re going to Australia, Bre! And I’m going to come visit you, I promise.”
You followed my mom and me to the airport later that day. I hugged you for the millionth time and made you promise to take care of yourself before kissing you goodbye.
In a few hours, you’ll be boarding a plane in Minneapolis. You’ll fly west, skip over an entire day, and I’ll pick you up from the Sydney International Airport Friday morning. You will be my first visitor. Just as you promised.
No, YOU are, Cutie. (Taken with instagram)
If there is no cure, I still want to correct a few things
and think mostly of people, and have them all alive.
I want a door opening in me that I can enter
and feel the clarity of evening and the stars beginning.
One after another, I want my mistakes returning
and to approach them on a beach…
Yes, my friends we are on the same wave…I brought my copy of Stupid Hope down to the beach with me yesterday. It’s in my purse and my train companion this week. Beautiful.
Bronte at dusk. (Taken with instagram)