Before we had our third child, Pheby,
before we said goodbye to Hong Kong and moved to Portugal,
we’d fly to Sydney with our girls.
To visit
my father, their Gung Gung, 公公,
my stepmother, their Abu, 阿婆.
They would drive up from Canberra,
we’d meet in Chinatown
for dim sum, steaming hot,
for phở with broth fragrant simmering since dawn,
steaming up the window between the kitchen and the street.
Me.
Him.
Our nanny.
Two babies, fourteen months apart.
One in a stroller.
One in a Baby Björn.
One arrived sooner we dared to hope.
The other unexpected and unannounced
until she was four and a half months nested in my womb.
I dropped contraception near our wedding,
planning it would take one or two years to get pregnant.
We conceived the first time.
We lost her.
Petra followed soon after.
Padme came the first night he was home from Canada after weeks away.
Each visit he made sure Ian,
his childhood school friend from GSIS joined us when not working at the wine store.
Always carrying a heavy rucksack full of books.
Always in shirt and sweater.
Always knowledgeable about anything a boy would care about.
Spitfires.
Rover V8s.
Bordeaux wines.
Yarra Valley wines.
How long a runway an A380 needs to land.
He came to
Zoos.
Aquariums.
QVB.
At QVB I chose a dress, cobalt blue,
draped in Ancient Greece,
tight over hips wide,
breasts full,
cleavage to my navel,
Open sandals flat.
The boys waited.
Like good boys.
I turned for him.
He said: “Yes. It’s you.”
Sometimes I’d send them off without me,
keeping my girls with Gung Gung, 公公, Abu, 阿婆 and me.
The dress came with me around the world.