By the time he sliced the magret de canard,
served room temperature,
Nico, Louise and their teen daughter Lily, as tall as Padme,
arrived from Singapore and Spain.
Her brother, my favourite baby boy,
we'd babysat,
independent,
off at uni in Canberra.
Kids connected since birth in Hong Kong,
finishing each other's words,
switching between native languages mid-sentence,
Australian and German passports each.
Wasabi challenges,
diving through inflatable rings into the pool,
"the condensation, Cleo!"
It means Nico teaching my youngest not to interrupt,
to wait for the pause.
It means disappearing with Louise for hours,
to be heard,
to be seen,
to be gotten.
Spending time with Nico and Lou means
afternoons of sitting with Louise at the kitchen counter,
slicing cucumber,
dicing tomatoes,
crushing garlic,
watching the boys pan fry baguette,
sliced in butter,
roast croutons,
sprinkle rosemary from my herb planter,
slow-prep entrecôte in the oven,
Nico pan-fry apple sliced,
him peel prawns,
de-vein prawns,
a kitchen towel over his shoulder.
It means driving south to Biarritz in two cars,
me and him drinking iced coffee in a bar above the beach,
Nico and Louise taking my youngest
to sand,
to water,
calm.
It means the teens spread out trendy on the beach,
on towels in the sun.
In the water,
jumping,
splashing,
unconcerned,
unconstrained.
Alive.
It means I buy tops and pants for our girls,
ice creams melting on waffles in the sun.
It means dinners,
hours late,
negotiating sleepovers and condoms with my oldest,
driving with her to the pharmacy and into town.
It means me and him slipping out to get
fish for sushi,
steak for tartare,
the boys driving to a château
for Bordeaux reds,
for Bordeaux whites,
slicing,
dicing,
rolling dinner,
sipping on mint juleps on the side.
It means my little one breaking a bowl of sushi rice,
scattered across the floor.
Nico cleaning up.
Her father holding her close,
"It's okay. Nothing's wrong. Stop apologising."
It means Sunday easy by the pool,
Bali jumping in to play,
snatching pizza slices, hot,
from the kitchen counter,
me rolling my eyes,
handing him the roll of kitchen paper,
asking Louise if she's hungry, ready for me to make dinner.
It’s Lily drawing flowers and cat paw henna tattoos on my little one's skin.
It's Padme spending hours in her room with pipe cleaners,
twisting a bouquet of flowers for Louise and her godfather.
It’s Petra baking brownies with Lily at midnight asking, “Dad, where’s the sugar?”
My little one trying to dislodge Louise from the air mattress, floating in the pool.
Louise sitting to have her nails painted by her.
