text: The cloak of brume was lifting. Once released from its shadows Greta was afforded a clearer view from the dew-damp park bench. Ah! Yes, that’s better . She absentmindedly scratched the ears of the chubby little black and white dog on her lap, her fingers settled upon a gnarly patch of hair. She gently worried it back into smoothness while watching her grandson Dillon’s elastic smile grow wider as he was projected higher and higher by daddy. Observing their game filled her with sunshine. The mood seemed to transfer to Sushi too, who jumping down, danced, Lipizzaner like, from one foot to another in rhythm. “C’mon girl, let’s go for a walk and explore old Katoomba town eh?” Sushi responded eagerly. Meandering past an old Edwardian house with dust white walls and loganberry stained trims, Greta paused. Her eyes drank in the details. Its worn stone steps, beckoning them to enter. Sushi had always struggled to pull her tummy over the first one. It was inexplicably a couple of inches higher than the others. Remnants of deep red paint clung tenaciously to the outside edges. The slight dip in the middle of the stone from one hundred years of use exuded homeliness like English muffins. The variegated holly still stood in the front garden, its bramble invader still visible. And lilac-lush wisteria enveloped the old wire fence covering up its out-of-sorts utilitarianism. Greta recollected the nut roast, followed by raspberry pavlova she had shared with Brendan. Just the two of them, in the house’s comfortable flag stoned kitchen. It had been during that Christmas meal she had realised how very ill he was. “Haribol you two! Fancy running into you here.” She turned towards the unexpected greeting unique to Hare Krishna devotees. “Goodness! I was just thinking about you and that Christmas lunch and here you are.” “Well you know you should be careful what you wish for,” he quipped. Greta, wrinkling her nose in response, threw him a look that assured him he was not on her wish list. “I’m just heading for that antiquarian bookshop on Waratah Street, care to join me?” “Why not,” she replied. Unhappy memories ran like tributaries into the river of their past, yet somehow it all seemed insignificant now. Brendan certainly showed no sign he was concerned she might harbour any resentment. Best cling to happier times Greta decided, under the changed circumstances. “I am just surprised to see you here, how’s your Mum and Dad?” “They’re great, and here with me now. You are bound to bump into them one of these days walking around here.” Greta decided not to think too deeply about Brendan’s parents in case they might also appear around the next corner. It did seem quite likely. Odd things had been happening. But some adjustment was to be expected, she thought. Quatermain’s Books was not far, so they had little time to swap stories before the shield-shaped black sign embellished with its traditional gold leaf loomed above them. Entering through the narrow mahogany double doorway Greta noticed a faint smell of Nag Champa. The shop’s floorboards had been polished to a soft sheen by its many visitors and were graced by a rather ancient Turkish rug. Greta had always liked bookshops, especially the old ones. The kind with shelves full of forgotten memories in foxed pages, their thick paper sometimes not quite separated. Her eyes were soon attracted to some old leather-cloth covers with embossed lettering with titles like ‘ The Builders’ . She moved towards the small Masonic history section. Smiling to herself, Greta remembered how affronted Brendan had been when she had compared the Krishna’s to the Masons. Sushi stayed quietly at her feet, while she and Brendan browsed among the steeple-tall shelves so expertly fitted jigsaw-esque into the limited space. Noticing the afternoon had drawn in, Greta resolved to move on, she still had a few more places she wanted to re-visit. Brendan had not changed much, he was totally absorbed in the books. She might as well not have been there. “We’d better be getting on, I have a bit to do still”, she said. “Nice seeing you.” “No worries”, was Brendan’s mumbled response, still too deeply engrossed to pay much attention. Making their way back out into the late afternoon sun, Sushi instinctively turned towards the highway. Greta glanced down at the old railway station signs as they crossed the bridge. There was something wild-west about the lettering. She imagined a steaming iron-horse screeching to a halt before whisking away its passengers clad in their Stetson and gold watch-chain finery. They walked on, the oak-lined pavements slipped silently under their feet. The road bowered by these relics from the days of the Empire. As they approached the cottage on South Street, the old rambler’s heady perfume brought the garden’s charms back. She noted the two cherry trees she had planted on the left side were already heavy with fruit, affording the resident sparrows a seasonal feast. These gentle little brown birds had always been welcome when she had lived here. She was heartened the new owner had not driven them off and, for a while, she tarried, amused by their dust-bath antics. A passing breeze sharpened her mind a little. Her thoughts turned back to her son and grandson in the park. “We best be heading back my little Soosh, we have quite a way to go.” The willing dog trotted out in front, her short legs carried her along jauntily, as her long coat followed the direction of the light wind. Greta smiled. This lovely little soul had been her companion for seventeen years. She remembered Brendan saying that Sushi would take a human birth next time, such was the goodness of her spirit. Considering he thought dogs were unclean when they first met, this was the highest praise he could have bestowed on any animal. An old photograph danced across her mind, Brendan and Sushi in bed on their backs, both fast asleep, their heads together on the pillow. How quickly that undershot smile had wheedled her way into his heart! Funny how things change, the same but different. They turned the corner to the park but the swings lay empty. Greta walked over to where the family had played, in the hope of finding some lingering trace of laughter. All was quiet now. “Looks like they have gone home”. “Well if we hurry we may be there before Dillon’s bedtime”. They walked on together, past the old laundromat with its flaked paint lifting from the walls like tortured petals. Past the takeaway Chinese, its occupants just warming up for the evening. Through the City, on up the hill, the one she used to find too difficult to climb. Yes, funny how things change, the same but different. “Almost there old girl.” The sun had gone to bed as the flats loomed out of the dusk. Greta weaved past the green bin blockade, through the entrance to the block at the back. Katy and Eric had been so happy when they found this place with its distant glint of the sea across the old Randwick cemetery. It was home to the three of them now. Climbing the flight of stairs to the landing, she wondered if the bats had already left for the night from their roost in the eaves. The light spilt yellow from the lounge window. Looking in, she could see her grandson in his bouncy chair. Still smiling, always smiling. Eric was in the kitchen, cooking. It was painful to be so close. Stepping into the room, Greta knelt beside Dillon and stroked his hair. He turned towards her, puzzled to find no one there. She ached to be able to hug her son and cuddle her grandson but they were oblivious to her presence. The closest suggestion she was near, might be a waft of her favourite perfume, or perhaps thinking they had heard her call their name. She had found her darling Sushi waiting for her when she arrived. And Brendan was around too it seemed, even if he was someone she could easily do without. There was a lot to learn about this place. Others she had met told her it was possible to communicate with the living. She hoped she could learn how; because it was going to be a long time before Dillon and Eric would cross over to the dimension she inhabited now. Funny how things change; everything the same but different.