Benwerrin Road

At Benwerrin Road, the air is still and humid. A few of a million raindrops have fallen. If you could see inside the homes of Benwerrin, this is what you would find: Number 17 is empty. In the kitchen there are two coffee cups, 1 teaspoon, and an open jar of instant coffee. The kettle is on, but has not reached boiling point. At Number 19, the television sends flickers of black and white over the walls. A popular crime show is running. The vacant armchair directly in front on the television has a small indentation, still warm. The crime scene tape, the slick detectives, and the opening credits are played out, unappraised. Across the road, at Number 20, there is a night gown laid out on the master bed. In the en-suite, fingernail clippers rest on the lip of the bath and two fingernails, recently cut, languish near the drain.

Benwerrin Road has eighty-eight homes. All rooms are empty, save Barry McAfee at Number 78, who was not woken as doors slammed and neighbours shrieked. At ninety-five years old, he is not aware that he is the sole occupant of the two hundred and seventy-four bedrooms in his street. There is no-one in the bathrooms, the laundries, the studies. Lights have been left on but there is no-one to illuminate. Children’s beds, still warm, mock home-makers with their barrenness. Books lie on the floor where they have fallen. Walls creak, clocks chime, and phones ring. No-one witnesses their feeble echoes.

The air has changed.

The occupants are found.

Not in their houses, but in their yards and gardens and driveways as they stand and watch the storm that breaks the drought.

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Tags:

people, nature, drought, missing and humidity