Will they scatter you in the ocean or the river? All bones and bits of gold.

You’ve got new shoes on, but your feet won’t touch the ground today. I’ll sit nine rows from the front and I’ll watch you with your flowers near the microphone, but you will not say a word.

Years ago, on the Yarra, we bobbed up and down gently. In our hands we held the oars. We groaned at the early morning starts at the boat sheds. Your mother drove us on Saturdays and we wondered which house we would live in when we grew up. I picked the red brick mansion with the turret, you laughed and called me a dickhead before your mother chastised you in her usual exasperated tone.

Your body was strong as you pulled the oar through the water. I matched your strength with my own, but it never came as easily to me. Your effort made the boat glide. I used up all my breath just to keep up the pace. At the end of the race I was empty, but you were filled with laughter, pleased with everything around you.

In Year Nine we went to the snow. In the ski lodge we found a bottle of port stashed away in the storeroom as though it was forgotten, and we drained it into our bodies until we fell down laughing. Heads spinning and throats burning, we walked the stairs up to our bunk beds and said goodnight to your parents. They didn’t notice, we told ourselves with amazement as our breath filled the small room with fumes.

At school, we smoked the cigarettes you hid behind the drawers in your bedroom and told your mother they were mine when she found them. I didn’t mind, only laughed as you described your mother breathing loudly between her teeth as she threw the packet in the bin.

The last time I saw you, we were no longer schoolgirls. With your hair so shiny—you bounced across the room to wish me well. Me, a bride; you, a mother of two. Gold bracelet on the right wrist, gold watch on the left. I held you briefly and thanked you for coming before the next well-wishers rushed towards me and you were gone.

I lost track of the things you liked. And I can barely remember the secrets we shared. But on the water we were together, our bodies strong and filled with everything around us. Our eyes closed against the light shearing off the muddy surface. The boat gliding, downriver.

Jenni Mazaraki is a writer from Melbourne, Australia. Her poetry has been highly commended and published in the Bridport Prize Anthology 2018, and a short story was shortlisted and published in the Margaret River Press Anthology 2019. Her writing has also been highly commended in the Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards for an Unpublished Manuscript 2020.