He glances at the latest arrival. The warrior does not acknowledge him but watches the figure ahead. They all do.
The figure parts the mist. A scene trembles into view.
There is his mother, dead now twenty-five years. She is bathing him in a white porcelain baby bath sitting on a vinyl-topped table. He splashes in the bath, and sees himself splash. He feels the trickle of warm water down his cool back, and sees himself shiver. He yells as the soapy water irritates his eyes, and hears the yell. He wriggles as his mother picks him up to dry—ready, set, go—and enjoys her warmth and the comfort scent all about her. He smiles to see her again, though she was never blonde and they never had such a bath.
Some of the strangers are frowning or inclining their heads, eyes peering through uncertain mist. Others are nodding their heads as if to say, yes, that’s how it was. Most look the same as he feels—puzzled yet pleased.
He sees tears through tears. In the distance, a faint humming.
He wipes his eyes. Another scene. A lounge room. Small open fire. New black and white TV. He sees his mother and sister dressing up a doll. Where is he? Alone in a corner, reading, lips moving as he mouths the words, one hand holding the book while he wipes wood dust from the other onto his pants. Other sisters crowd around the doll, which grows as they grow. He continues to read. Just like his father.
