Tasman Peninsula

This is my father's country. It runs through his blood and gently whispers to me on cold, windy nights. I remember him pointing the Laterns out to me, down the very end, almost 20 yearsago. This time, driving Alex along my memories, it all seemed much smaller than memory. Like my father, his once terrifying temper these days seems like a childish tantrum and I'm no longer so afraid of him. The big man with the hitting hands used to feel bigger than 5'2". These days his rounded form is more comical than threatening.

Despite our turbulent relationship, there's a kinship with my father that I don't share with mum. Inherited memory of the trees and mountains and a familiarity with this place. He taught me how to read the weather, called me out of bed to watch a spider spinning web under the moon. In his big garden I had my little place and each year a packet of seeds. Still, he'll always remain distant, locked up in parts with his own strange demons far beyond my reach. All I can do is go walking through his memory and find what peace I can.