that summer of 2002

on the eve of the new year

I was in Tasmania
sipping red wine with a priest

and my father
in a caravan park
his name (the priest’s not my father’s)

was Felix, or Sebastian,

something like Father Felix Sebastian,

visiting from India, on a world tour.
he said ‘the young people here are very mature’
he said this looking at my wine glass.
‘yes, I suppose it’s exposure to a thing

that matures one,’ I said, looking at his wine glass.
we downed our blood. the priest enquired

how many glasses I would tolerate

before I lost my mind. father assured him

that I was a rather mature young man.
soon after, the priest and my father retired

to separate cabins. it was new year’s eve

so I scuffed around

for something to do.

I switched on the TV,

ate many bars of Tasmanian fudge,

watched Monty Python’s

The Meaning of Life
as the clock ticked over to 2003

in a cabin between the priest’s and my father’s –

father snoring on one side,

the priest, perhaps, turning pages on the other.