Mother of the Bride

Yesterday I rode my bike down to the chalets where my daughter was staying for Christmas.
Her partner came outside and said, "Sarah, d' you reckon you can go and get us a coupla bottles of champagne?"

I should have clocked the look in his eye. But bewildered because he never drinks champagne,  I said, "Yeah yeah, fine. Just wait. I'll finish this cigarette and be off."

Meanwhile, in his impatience, in his moment, in his foresight, he walked inside and asked my daughter to marry him.

I rode my bike home into a finished sun and a misty fugue of midgies, past the cow paddock, past the bogans with their pit bull terriers and black headed sheep, over the bridge, past the Vietenam Vet's house, past the old couple who grow their own food, and the karri tree that refuses to die, past the pony breeders on the corner and that weird old Italian man's brick house.

And at the gate, me and my bike performed a joyous, age-old broggy in the gravel.