Marking the Day
By Karina W
Published 14 September 2022
She hears the mark of a new day: the cacophony of kookaburras.
She knows their erratic laughing signals the start of something, a simmering.
She sees red embers enveloping the land,
she acknowledges the early sun, risen to reconcile the past.
She picks up her favourite pen and notebook, letting the black ink flow across the page;
she cannot account for how easily she writes the words.
She feels the liberation of strokes gliding on thick white paper;
she feels words ebbing and flowing, forming new meaning.
She will write their names, amend what was lost by imprinting it on paper.
She will bind their stories to every page,
she will bring those forgotten people to life.
She sees the thick morning light erupt; suddenly,
she imagines the words bursting, flying from the page,
she sees the stories encircling the fig trees outside her window;
she imagines their indelible roots cemented in the earth, sprouting branches and leaves.
She resolves:
I will recall their narrative: I will write, sing, celebrate, mourn their lost lives.
I will weave their stories and spirits into the fabric of the land.
I will mark the page, mark the day with remembrance.