All it takes is one day

breathing in air warmed by the sun, with a

cadmium yellow tint coming to rest over the city, and I am

drawn in. Here, I think, is the complete

example of an almost life, unable to shift from the

feeling of tracing an echo through what might have been familiar streets.

Growing up a couple thousand kilometres away

has me disconnected, and our situation

is reminiscent of a family friend, always talked about, never met.

Just like this one; encountering faces I only know from hazy photographs of

kids in footie pyjamas, Hot Wheels gripped in their chubby fingers. And yet we are

laughing and teasing and falling into that place where our almost selves reside. It

makes me wonder if it is possible to miss something you

nearly had. Like a stronger accent, or a tan,

or the kind of bonds that might have been permanent, if only I’d been in the right

place at the right time. And yet,

Queensland will forever be my first point of entry into this life,

regardless of the distance between us. Even with no memories here, I am

secure in the fact that I once belonged to Brisbane as much as it belonged

to me. One more city that I am tethered to, holding me together

underneath it all. And when I leave, this

voyage home feels less certain somehow. Later, I

write a letter to these new-old friends, making sure to add a line of

X’s and O’s along the bottom, and hope that they are passed on to my hometown;

yours truly from an Australian born, not raised. New

Zealand can hold onto me for now.