Indecision doesn’t totally absolve one from responsibility. And so my brother and I would, from time to time, arrange to visit Moolabar Street together.
The grass still grew, the gutters still filled with leaves. Under the house was still an unfinished masterpiece of cracked, patched and mismatched concrete sections. Plumbing struggled to pretend it was from the current century. The collection of screws and tools from the 1950s still lined the back of the work bench recovering from the job for which they had once been indispensable. There was a sadness to them. Once caressed by hardworking hands they now looked neglected and forlorn.
Those days weren’t particularly productive but as we mowed the lawn and trimmed and dragged limbs from trees and rampant shrubs to the bin or the box trailer memories were being gently evoked. Each visit, each walk through the empty house brought back long forgotten images and more stories.