hearing about my ancestors from my parents.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Dad talks about ours all the time. All the stories have been passed down through the generations. In fact, somewhere in here are family photo albums from before the impact.”
He turns to look for them and makes this cute “aha” sound when he locates them. My stomach does a somersault.
Sitting on the sofa, he beckons me to sit beside him. I sit down, careful not to get too close, but I can’t see the book so I move closer. A zing of energy courses through me when my thigh touches his. I debate moving away, but Howard rests half the book on my lap, keeping me where I am.
With care, he flips through the pages.
“This is my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather,” he says, pointing to a picture of a man, a woman, and two kids. What captures my interest the most, though, is what is in the background—blue sky, green grass, and the sun. I’ve seen the pictures in history books, showing what the surface looked like before the asteroid. Seeing it like this, though, in family photos, makes it so much more real.
“Wow.”
Howard looks at me with one of those smiles that lights up his whole face before he turns the page. “This is them on holiday. That big rock in the background was called Uluru.”
Everyone looks so happy in the image, as if they don’t have a care in the world. I wish that was the life I was born into, instead of this solitary existence of duty.
I turn away to hide the tears that threaten to fall. I miss my family. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, and it has been at least a couple of months since I’ve spoken to them on the phone.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing, I’m fine,” I say, feeling utterly foolish at my sappy display.
“No, you’re not.”
He lifts his hand towards my face. I sit stock still, waiting to see what he plans on doing. Though looking a little hesitant, he continues until his hand is cupping my cheek, wiping away the tears. The caring nature of his action only reminds me how alone I am and makes me cry all the harder.
“It’s okay,” he says as he wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into a comforting half-hug.
I savour the reassuring weight of his arm and try to rein in my emotions. The warmth from his body adds to the comfort and settles deep inside. We sit there for what seems like hours while we look at the photos. It feels natural to be close to Howard, almost intimate—a concept that was foreign to me only yesterday.
All too soon, we hear Rhonda call out that lunch is ready. It is only when his warmth is no longer radiating through my body that I remember this man and I are little more than strangers. As he calls me Ms Greene and offers me his hand, I am also reminded that, even if I may feel something for Howard, I am not free to pursue it.
When we arrive in the kitchen, the remaining James children appear. I gratefully take the seat Howard has pulled out for me. He then takes the seat beside me.
I eat in silence until Rhonda asks me what I thought of the reading room.
“It is very nice,” I respond. “I could easily spend days in there curled up on the couch with a book.”
“I showed her a family photo album and made her cry,” Howard adds rather matter-of-fact.
His mum is perplexed. “You made her cry?”
Before Howard can respond, I interrupt. “No, he didn’t make me cry. I had a tear in my eye, but it wasn’t Howard’s fault.”
“Why were you crying?” Claire, the six-year-old, sounds concerned.
I hesitate, having no words to explain how alone and isolated my life of privilege has been. “It was nothing really.”
Claire, in her innocence, replies, “Mum says if you’re sad, you should talk about it.”
“You’re right, Claire. It was just seeing the happy people in the photos made me realise how much I miss my family and how I wish I had memories like those.”
I swipe away the tears that well up again. I have no idea
“I’m sorry to hear that. Dad talks about ours all the time. All the stories have been passed down through the generations. In fact, somewhere in here are family photo albums from before the impact.”
He turns to look for them and makes this cute “aha” sound when he locates them. My stomach does a somersault.
Sitting on the sofa, he beckons me to sit beside him. I sit down, careful not to get too close, but I can’t see the book so I move closer. A zing of energy courses through me when my thigh touches his. I debate moving away, but Howard rests half the book on my lap, keeping me where I am.
With care, he flips through the pages.
“This is my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather,” he says, pointing to a picture of a man, a woman, and two kids. What captures my interest the most, though, is what is in the background—blue sky, green grass, and the sun. I’ve seen the pictures in history books, showing what the surface looked like before the asteroid. Seeing it like this, though, in family photos, makes it so much more real.
“Wow.”
Howard looks at me with one of those smiles that lights up his whole face before he turns the page. “This is them on holiday. That big rock in the background was called Uluru.”
Everyone looks so happy in the image, as if they don’t have a care in the world. I wish that was the life I was born into, instead of this solitary existence of duty.
I turn away to hide the tears that threaten to fall. I miss my family. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, and it has been at least a couple of months since I’ve spoken to them on the phone.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing, I’m fine,” I say, feeling utterly foolish at my sappy display.
“No, you’re not.”
He lifts his hand towards my face. I sit stock still, waiting to see what he plans on doing. Though looking a little hesitant, he continues until his hand is cupping my cheek, wiping away the tears. The caring nature of his action only reminds me how alone I am and makes me cry all the harder.
“It’s okay,” he says as he wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into a comforting half-hug.
I savour the reassuring weight of his arm and try to rein in my emotions. The warmth from his body adds to the comfort and settles deep inside. We sit there for what seems like hours while we look at the photos. It feels natural to be close to Howard, almost intimate—a concept that was foreign to me only yesterday.
All too soon, we hear Rhonda call out that lunch is ready. It is only when his warmth is no longer radiating through my body that I remember this man and I are little more than strangers. As he calls me Ms Greene and offers me his hand, I am also reminded that, even if I may feel something for Howard, I am not free to pursue it.
When we arrive in the kitchen, the remaining James children appear. I gratefully take the seat Howard has pulled out for me. He then takes the seat beside me.
I eat in silence until Rhonda asks me what I thought of the reading room.
“It is very nice,” I respond. “I could easily spend days in there curled up on the couch with a book.”
“I showed her a family photo album and made her cry,” Howard adds rather matter-of-fact.
His mum is perplexed. “You made her cry?”
Before Howard can respond, I interrupt. “No, he didn’t make me cry. I had a tear in my eye, but it wasn’t Howard’s fault.”
“Why were you crying?” Claire, the six-year-old, sounds concerned.
I hesitate, having no words to explain how alone and isolated my life of privilege has been. “It was nothing really.”
Claire, in her innocence, replies, “Mum says if you’re sad, you should talk about it.”
“You’re right, Claire. It was just seeing the happy people in the photos made me realise how much I miss my family and how I wish I had memories like those.”
I swipe away the tears that well up again. I have no idea
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