A Letter to our Son
Before I have finished writing this, the story of how you were born, I will be forty-four years old and the events and feelings which make up the story will be at least eight months old.
You are lying in the next room in a cotton jump-suit.
You have five teeth.
You cannot walk.
You do not seem interested in crawling.
You are sound asleep.
I have put off writing this so long that, now the time is here, I do not want to write it. I cannot think. Laziness. Wooden shutters over the memory. Nothing comes, no pictures, no feelings, but the architecture of the hospital at Camperdown.
From the UQP hardback edition, 1994.
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Last modified: November 15, 2001.