Leaves - Vesna McMaster

‘She left.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Urgent call of the wild? It was thirty years ago.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘I don’t know. She turned up in Arizona a few years later, I saw a news report some concert. She teamed up with some Peruvian band and an elephant re-wilding program, I seem to remember.’

‘Odd combo for an engineer.’

‘It would have been odd if it weren’t odd.’

I carry on kneading the dough, pounding a touch harder as images of Rosa’s schoolhood tick past in my memory. Are they really memories? I think they are. They’re illusive. Minds play tricks. Photos of Rosa were all of her on her own. Everyone else had a backing group – parents, aunties, siblings. Rosa was always standing there, like a stick, all on her own. Those grainy photos. The next words leave me like olive oil – slowly, cold-pressed.

‘She never sounded like… much like Rosa.’

‘No.’

Sue sips her tea.

There isn’t any more forthcoming, apparently. Having avoided the subject for decades, it has a moth-eaten, anaemic air to it. I’m not keen to handle it too much.  The bubbles might rise again. The dough is getting silky. I change the subject.

‘It’s been a while since we’ve had leavened bread.’