The Fragility of Together

December 2021 Longlisted in Bath Flash Fiction Award

My children are always in my mind, moving towards me. 

Leela’s cartwheeling, Jake, skateboarding. Violet’s daydreaming, then checking her phone. My children are running, calling for me, ‘Dad’. Shouting, party glitter in their voices, ‘Daddy … Daddeee.’

Shards of longing wake me – I should’ve hugged them more when I could.

Our town has become rope in a tug of war. In a broken heartbeat the boundary line shifted; now I live in a different state to my ex-wife. We’re all forbidden to cross.

The kids are at the pop-up border congested with camouflage and soldiers. I lay a tea towel over the orange plastic barricade, peg it down with drinks and sticky pastries. Jumbles of camping chairs have become enduring fixtures, their weatherproof skins cracking and blistering in the kiln of summer heat. Takeaway cups teeter on upturned crates. 7News called us an emerging first world shanty town.

‘How’s school? What you been up to? Is your Mum alright? Let’s chuck a ball.’

My kids answer in shrugs and monosyllables. I haven’t seen Violet smile for weeks. She’s fallen into a dark shaft inside herself and I can’t coax her out. We catch and throw a tennis ball, catch and throw. It’s not a game, more a way of passing something between us.

‘When we’re all back together again … when we’re all back together again … ‘

Together is the drug we need to stop breaking.  

‘I miss coming to your flat, Dad.’ Leela cups my hand as if she’s the parent. 

On the drive home, I always stop at a petrol station to buy three litres of milk. I sleep better knowing it’s here for my kids. I’m hanging on threadbare hope that soon we’ll be sharing a fridge.