The Walk to the River.

​Home.

“Sun’s up!” James yelled. He stood shivering in a white singlet and corduroy cargo pants that sat crooked on his tiny hips.

Lyra set down her coffee and pulled a bright red skivvy from the dryer, quickly yanking it over his head. The snug neckline made his cheeks flush as he popped out for air and hurriedly pushed his arms into the sleeves while Lyra tucked it in.

Imitating a racing car, James zoomed to his room and rummaged his drawer for a pair of thick, dark-green socks. Lyra quickly rinsed her mug and followed.

​“Ahh, the green ones today?” she smiled, noticing his choice.

​He nodded, climbing onto the bed. Wiggling his toes, he declared, “Mummy, I’m wiggling my toes!”

​Lyra smiled back and gently plucked his big toe. “This little piggy went to market—”

​Knowing the game, James squealed with laughter, instantly pulling his foot away before she could grab the second toe. “No!” he retorted. “I’m not staying home; I’m going for a walkies!”

​With an approving smile, Lyra helped him with his socks. She glanced under the bed for one sneaker, then grabbed the other by the door. As she approached, James pulled his feet away with determination. “Let me do it, Mommy.”

​Sitting up, he quickly slipped on his shoes and fastened the Velcro straps.

​“Nice job!” Lyra cheered, dropping the hands she hadn't realized were on her hips and then clapped them together. “You’ve been practicing for weeks.” James lit up with pride, flashing a huge, cheesy grin.

​Feeling super confident, he jumped off the bed. He pulled his beanie over his soft, curly blonde hair and, for the first time, lifted his heavy parka off the hook by himself. Lyra knelt to help him line up the zipper teeth, noticing the mittens that had slipped out of his pocket.

​“Can you put these on yourself, or do you want Mummy to help?” she sighed overtaken from his energy.

*The Walk to the River.

​Once the mittens were on, they were set. The front door clicked quietly behind them.

​“Shh,” Lyra whispered. “Let’s not wake the neighbours.”

​She paused at the driveway. Today, the fog was a soft white blanket, draping over the eucalyptus trees, power lines, and sidewalk. They passed old fibro houses with gardens full of Gum and Acacia trees—a tell-tale sign of the area’s laid-back history as former Defence housing, now a budget-friendly spot for young families like theirs.

​As they rounded the street, Lyra asked, “Which way today?”

​He pointed. “Swings, Mummy.”

​There were four different routes to the river path and Lyra switched those regularly, just in case someone was following them.

​They strolled along, the routine settled over them like a comfort. These early mornings felt like a snapshot of suburbia: cars crunching out of driveways, the familiar thwack of cellophane-wrapped newspapers landing on front lawns, and the distant bark of dogs. Cats zipped between yards. Kitchen lights were dull against the morning’s natural light, giving Lyra quick glimpses of the everyday hustle—the smell of eggs and bacon, or the muffled end of a morning argument.

​The swing route usually took an hour. Lyra didn't need to check the time; she could already hear the school traffic surfacing as they neared the park.

​“Do you need the toilet?” she asked.

​The answer was a firm “Yes.”

​Once they were finished, Lyra gestured toward the playground. “Still want the swing, James?”

​He didn’t answer; he simply dashed ahead. When Lyra arrived, she pulled a clean but ragged towel from her bag and wiped the dew off the plastic seat. After a few swings and a couple of turns on the rocking horse, they continued, following their usual route through the bush of towering, unchanging gum trees. The cool, refreshing fog, clung to the ground, sweetening the air. The shrill, melodious calls of small morning birds who joyfully foraged for breakfast filled that same air.

​Lyra breathed in and out, feeling the tightness in her chest begin to relax. Her husband, stuck in middle management, was away again. He wanted a bigger life, a desire she didn't share, yet his embarrassment about this budget suburb—and of her—not what she liked to think about. Only his love for James kept him tethered to her. This walk, these stolen hours, were the only moments Lyra could shed the guilt and sense of uselessness that haunted her.

​“What are the birds singing?” James asked, tilting his head back and interrupting her thoughts.

​Echoing her grandmother’s familiar reply, Lyra said, “Child, listen!”

​Enjoying the ancestral, grounded echo in his mother's voice, he perked up his ear as a crow clicked its tongue, a sort of rolling woody sound, overhead.

​“What do you think the crow is saying?” Lyra prompted.

​James looked up, brow furrowed in concentration. “I think... he knows our secret?”

​Lyra stopped, raising both eyebrows at the crow. “So, what secret do you know, Mr. Crow?”

​The crow let out a sharp caw.

​“And what do you think his secret is?” she asked.

​James dissolved into giggles. “He can see our sandwiches!”

​Crossing her arms, Lyra feigned disbelief. “And how did Mr. Crow know that?”

​James laughed. “Because you bring them all the time, Mummy.

​Lyra dug deep into her bag and unwrapped the sandwich: a thick slice of cheese beneath a heavy layer of rich Vegemite. It wasn't much, but it was theirs, carefully factored into the family budget. She tossed a few crust pieces to the crow. Already knowing James’s answer, she casually asked, “Do you want some?”

*The magic stones.

​James and Lyra settled onto the dry towel, the river water lapping near their shoes. As James munched, Lyra sensed that familiar, subconscious shift. She remembered her Nana watering the Mr Lincoln rose as: they were slipping, now her son and herself were slipping into the shared, recurring dream of collecting small, round stones.

​“Put the stones in your pocket,” she said automatically, knowing he always did.

​“Are these magical stones from the dragons?” he asked, examining two the size of twenty-cent coins. Lyra, aware that they would soon throw them from the bridge, secretly slipped a few more into her own jeans pocket.

​“Yup, totally magic, buddy,” she replied, trying to imitate her grandfather's cool tone.

​With her job gone and the fresh memory of a female voice hissing "bitch" before the line went dead, these moments by the river were all she could offer James. She desperately wanted them to imprint on his subconscious, appearing in his adult dreams when he needed comfort, joy and reassurance.

​The reverie continued like a sleepwalk. On the bridge, Lyra kept her arm tight around James, fearful of him slipping through the gap in the railing. He was too precious. She hugged him close, feeling his heart beat as he dropped the stones one by one into the large river below.

​“Did you see that splash, Mummy?” he asked.

​“Yes, I did,” she murmured, mesmerized by the concentric circles that formed and spread out with each stone thrown. In that moment, she felt a million miles away from the troubles, egos, and chaos of the world. And her son, her son, was throwing stones.

*Anastasia

​Lyra walked onto the weathered Bremer River bridge. Beneath her snug old beanie, she concealed more than just the beginnings of gray hair, but she didn’t care. The August wind chilled her nose, catching the end of the stray strands of dull brown hair and whipping them against her neck. She pulled the twists away, but they escaped her fingers again, briefly lashing her softening facial skin before whipping into the creases around her eyes and mouth.

​She adjusted her headphones, enveloped in the soothing, meditative rhythm of 368 hertz, a calming barrier around her solitude. As the cold air touched her nose, she reached into her tracksuit pocket for a tissue. Her fingers fumbled, her awareness shocked to find the pocket empty of the river stones she hadn’t consciously carried in years.

​A sudden, intense weight overcame her, pressing down with a potent force. Leaning heavily against the creaking bridge railing, she hunched over and exhaled a cloud of fog. Below, the river’s deep waters rushed and burst with a dizzying force. It felt like a tidal pull out of her own body.

​In that chaotic moment, memories swept over her. She could hear James's childish laughter and saw the water’s reflective light dancing around them as she hugged him, waiting for that familiar plop of a pebble followed by mesmerizing ripples.

​Just then, her phone chimed. The phantom birth pains vanished and she gained her composure again.

​“Mum, it’s a girl!”

​Lyra smiled, her eyes fixed on the newborn on her screen. A tear escaped one eye and fell toward the river.

​“What’s her name, James?” she asked, wiping the second tear.

​“ANASTASIA Lyra.”

​“She has your eyes, James.”

​When the call ended, Lyra walked to the water's edge. She bent down and selected three smooth, worn stones. Like her own Nana, she rubbed them between her fingers and intuited their energy; one felt like the grace of time, another as sturdy as the wisdom of the ancestors of enduring relationships, and the last seemed to absorb the momen of returning light. She slipped all three into her coat pocket—for Anastasia.