She took his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "December, here, is not an ending, Leo. It's not a closing of the year. It's a beginning. The wattles are about to bloom. The cicadas are tuning up. It's the season of long, slow evenings."
She led him out into the dazzling, impossible light. A fly buzzed past his ear. A child ran past him towards a gelato cart, barefoot on the hot pavement. A man was watering a lawn that was so green it hurt his eyes. what season is in australia now
His grandmother, Nila, hadn't been well. Her voice over the crackling phone line had been thin as rice paper. "The jacarandas are finished, Leo. The petals are all over the footpath. Just like purple snow." She took his hand, her grip surprisingly strong
He bit into the mango. The juice ran down his chin, sticky and sweet as honey. He looked at his grandmother and smiled. It's a beginning
And for the first time in his life, Leo spent Christmas eating prawns on a beach, listening to the waves erase the footprints of the old year, while the sun burned a hole in the sky, promising a thousand new beginnings.
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