It’s Bright Outside

I’m waking in a muddle of knitted blankets below Nana’s counter, which is odd because—

—none of this

was there yesterday—

—I hadn’t meant to fall asleep so early. But a yawn cracks my jaw as I press the heel of my socked foot against the counter, stretching myself out from the curl I’d fallen into while napping. For a moment, I’m tangled—

—in knowing

I shouldn’t fit—

—in the fluffy coils of my stuffed ferret, Long Ferret, whose back paws dangle to my knees when I stand up. But I’m only tangled a moment. And once the moment is over, I haul Long Ferret out from our bed to peer about the space around us.

Nana isn’t in her place above me, perched on the stool behind the register with her reading glasses and tiny scales she uses to measure the tea into bags. Instead, I’m alone, in the quiet, bright, dusty tea shop, startling bursts of greenish light spilling through the windows and making the tin-lined walls glint.

This never happens, this being left alone. My grandparents know me too well. If Long Ferret’s at my knees, then I’m eight, and I’m naughty, and there’s a ladder to the attic of the shop that Pop’s never let me up to see. The trapdoor is open, and the light inside is on. I suddenly know that Pop’s up there waiting, maybe with a lolly, maybe with a smile for my bravery—and the ache of wanting to see him burns in me so hot I almost fall over with it. It takes so many more steps than I’m used to to cross the tea shop floor, to reach the ladder, which I leap upon, to find—

—the rungs are

worn soft

from decades of feet—

—it’s sturdy, fresh from Pop’s work shed. Scaling it is an act of courage, past all those labels that say exciting new words like Earl Grey and persimmon, but which seem to peel away the higher I get. The words jumble apart until I’m too young to read. Long Ferret is to my calves now as I peer up the ladder, which is higher than it seemed from the counter even though I’m halfway up.

I take one rung, heart galloping, then another; there’s a perfect glee in doing what I shouldn’t. The ground swims below me, but I’m excited, thrilled, to be going up, up, up, past labels I can’t read at four, through those beams of greenish sunlight, towards the trapdoor ahead. Reaching up for his rough, soft hands and the memory of being held.

Long Ferret and I climb, up past the windows, peeking out at the towering eucalyptus outside. Sun through their leaves is why the lights gone green and gold. I miss—

—the smell of trees

they cut the eucalyptus

down

forty years ago

to put office blocks around us instead—

—my footing and almost slip, chin banging against a ladder rung. Frozen in pain and fright, muscles locked around the ladder; I’m higher than I’ve ever been. Higher than anyone’s ever been. I feel like I’ve been on this ladder for a lifetime, chasing the shadows moving above, and the distant sound of familiar voices. Long Ferret dangles past my feet, which are bare now. I’m four, I’m nine, I’m three; there are birds outside singing, and I hear a laugh I’d left behind long ago—

—lorikeets went extinct

twenty-three years

after I was married—

—as I slip, Long Ferret tumbling down with me.

As I fall, I realise: I’m too little to do this alone. I think, I’m going to be hurt—

—when I’m fourteen

Pop dies.

When I’m ninety-four

the last of my family to go—

—when I land.

But I don’t. Hands catch me. They’re strong and rough, but soft too, bundling me against a body I know the smell of. Pop cradles me close as Nana picks up Long Ferret, reuniting us in his arms. I’m finally small enough to fit.

“Not up there, love,” he says, turning us both towards the door outside, which is open. The birds outside are loud. They’re everything I’ve ever forgotten. “We’re outside waiting for you. But you took your time waking up.”

I think to tell him I was busy—

—living—

—having adventures, but I want to go outside with my cousins, my brother, my parents, my friends; I want the forest and the trees above, the birds I can hear calling and my family below them. I want everything I climbed boldly past without seeing on the way up the ladder of my years.

“Does she want to walk?” Nana asks. “Big girl like she’s getting to be.”

I hug Long Ferret closer, settle my head on Pop’s shoulder, scowl a bit. Pop laughs. It shakes my whole body. It’s quiet. The light is as bright as it ever was. And I won’t outgrow my Pop’s arms now.

“Naw,” he says. “She won’t be small for long. I’ll carry her—

—home.

Charlie Winter

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Based in Australia, Charlie Winter is an academic by day and, by night, still an academic but much more distractible about it. When not performing the inexplicable rituals of academia, he writes fantasy fiction celebrating everyday magic, eco-optimism, and queer identities.

• Charlie Winter

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