Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

There is a photo, him carrying me –
my father’s brother
framed by summer’s light and a dark stately car – his.
Part pose, part opportunity
as if he had paused and turned to oblige the watching camera
early 60’s, prosperity, peace and sensible hair.

Infancy stumbles to childhood
he lifts me into the trailer, drives gently to a stock free paddock
pulling out the kite and holding on,
one-handed
until I think it is me.
Childhood bustles to adolescence
I carry staples and hammer, he, fence posts and wire
he chainsaws a tree to firewood
I stack the trailer.
Adolescence arrives at adulthood
we lift hay bales from fields,
iron onto roofs
catch sheep for haircuts and pedicure.

A dark stately car and sunshine,
no photo
one of six
I carry him from it …. to the grave.

The first time – the only time
just this once
the other side,
facing the interviewee – on the panel.
A panel of three –
expert witness – choosing my successor.

Had I ever been so eager, so hopeful,
memory couldn’t remember,
imagination couldn’t imagine.
But,
by then an inside trader
I knew what wasn’t printed –
what the job holder finds out for themselves.

One hour per interview, 30 – 40 minutes of Q& A
15 – 20 minutes of discussion between the triangle.
NEXT
all polished, best behaved and really want this opportunity
one especially – more than keen : desperate –
mid 90s employment security diminishing
crumbling public healthcare, private hospital – a good bet.
The other two, former nurses in their mid 40s, have been here
22 years and 17 years
steady promotion, one location,
mock and ridicule her desperation.

The ridiculed woman, also mid-40s –
recently separated with two children
was desperate –
desperately seeking job security
they didn’t get it,
didn’t understand job insecurity, or interview anxiety
it was too long ago.

A mistake undoubtedly,
should have known better, should have known it didn’t matter –
didn’t matter what the manager of 41
would think of the opinion of a part timer of one
as incongruous as centre stage actress
seeking advice from a stagehand.
Perhaps it was flattery
or desire to help
or just plain ego
or just timing –
the afternoon quiet between shifts and less frenetic.

Did I think she did a good job?
And,
did I know how she was perceived?
For the first,
everything was accomplished on time
to an acceptable standard and within budget
so the answer had to be, “ yes.”
The second
ummmmm
“spit it out,”
water cooler, tea room consensus
was someone with the manner of an owner
and output of an employee.

My opinion is never again sought
nor am I spoken to
unless unavoidably necessary and
always with rigid brittle courtesy.