Sport 22: Autumn 1999
After the removal and subsequent death of my grandfather, this house was forgotten by the family, or lingered in the subconscious like a letter which was never written. Out of sympathy and love for the old couple who were gone, their house and their farm, the locals have banded together to keep the farm running—mending the fences, shearing and dipping the sheep. There is no profit in it. The effort required brings the local community together in a way which it has not seen for years. They regard the farm as a work of art, a collaborative project which has value in its own right.
A neighbouring farmer comes with a bale wrapper. He wraps huge old trunks of macrocarpa and rusting farm machinery in black plastic.
Today, I wake up to find that the fish are gone. The lid of the fishtank has been forcibly removed from within, and lies in pieces on the ground.
I return to bed and lie there on my side. Soon, I think I feel two small shapes brush lightly against my cheek, but I do not open my eyes. Then they are gone.