It's time to give the plants a drink. In the balcony I pour water into soil, wait for excess to drain. Day is giving way to dark: a clear deep blue on the northern sky. Above the jacaranda trees, a bird sails home, an orange tissue crumples the air. Indoors are photographs of those I miss: Mum posing in a kimono. And there is Dad who would tickle the spaces between my ribs as I spun on the floor -- tied to my body where his fingers held me -- then flew apart. Music flows from the heart of the house to every room. Things are just as I've left them. Stew is simmering on the stove. Salad servers stick out of the wooden bowl. Rainbow of vegetables tossed and relaxed. I tilt the watering-can over the last pot of herbs, the distant oak now full of night, as a star presses his gentle face into the sky. I want to go inside and smell my dinner. I want to light my candles, while the earth slows down to breathe, until they begin to tell their good stories in soft low voices.