Matinee Light, Diana Hartog

The Apprentice
On my last visit home I watched from the kitchen window: my father - out in the back patio on his knees. He'd take a brick in one hand, weigh it in his open palm and butter it thick in two deft strokes - here there's a little jump in seeing it set in. He'd tap the brick into place with the handle of the trowel, its tip tonguing along the joint, the pleasure of his own movements like a light around him as stooped he shadowed his work - nothing beyond his reach and the slap of mortar. He makes it look easy.

Don't talk like that. Death
will hear for sure.
He'll mistake this soft babbling of yours
for words said at the last minute,
it's the love in your voice that he'll smell,
daughter. Haven't I taught you anything?