By Belinda Rowe
Tiptoe down the gravel driveway until the house is behind you, don’t look back. The lights will be off, your father, asleep. The sound of blood in your ears might deafen you, but remember, night is not your enemy, night is simply the earth turning on its axis away from the sun, nothing more, nothing less. At the lake, the beating wings of a ruru might stir the air around you, no need to startle – the morepork owl is a messenger from the other world. Heft the dinghy to the water’s edge. Listen to the oars dip and whoosh as you row to the island in the middle of the lake. Know your strength. Behold the white pekapeka orchids draped from tawhai trees along the banks. When the hull scrapes over sand and greenstone, heave the dinghy onto the shore, breathe in the rippling waters, the cloud cloaked hills, the darkened still, then walk the winding path to the clearing. Observe the shadows of night creatures, then gather sticks and wood, like we did that day last spring, when I prepared you for my passing. Lay the kindling on dry moss in the fire pit, take the matches from your backpack, any lingering fear will catch quickly. Choose a good sitting-log, watch the flames crackle and puff as the earth turns on its axis back towards the sun. I’ll be close — tell me some things.
Belinda Rowe is an English teacher and short fiction writer. Born in New Zealand, she now lives in Walyalup, Western Australia. Her recent fiction appears or is forthcoming in Fractured Literary, New Flash Fiction Review, Vestal Review, Flash the Court, Centaur Lit, Okay Donkey and BULL. She was a SmokeLong Quarterly Emerging Writer Fellow 2025.
