I was always self-conscious, even when alone. Especially when alone. Felt like I was on show and had to perform. I don’t know why. Things I could and couldn’t say, a set number of ways to say them. Watched myself, cautious, monitoring my mannerisms, the movement of my limbs. And never, never satisfied. At the time, I thought there was wisdom and maturity to it – or hoped there was. Now, I realise it was fear. Didn’t yet know myself. I had to give myself the space and freedom to become who I was destined to be. And time – these things take time. Those insecurities would have dropped away. Assuming I would have given myself that gift.

The murmurs at night remind me of my mother. Long after the rest of us had gone to bed, she would be up talking. To my father or to friends or family on the phone, or to herself. Chattering away for hours, either cooking for the next day or seated at the table in the kitchen, her rough hands never sticking to the plastic cover like ours did. She worked hard. Slept for a few hours only then had tea and almonds for breakfast on the balcony. Caught the bus to work, came home in the afternoon and cooked. Proud and cunning. Round and soft from the day I was born, but her hands and feet were as rough as cinder blocks. She thinks I went somewhere without saying so. That I packed some essentials only and went to the countryside. Thinks I will be back soon for a bowl of soup or a slap across the back of the neck for being lazy. Making soups and stews and cakes no one will eat late into the night. Thinks I am a mere moment away from walking through the door. Why wouldn’t I be? It is better this way, yes.

…

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is the author of two books, the short story collection Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father and 926 Years with Kyle Coma-Thompson. Midnight Grotesques, with Michelle Lynn Dyrness, is forthcoming from Sublunary Editions.