She never knocks—just slips quietly into the study
while the kettle hums in the kitchen.
She catches me with pen in hand,
unfolding thoughts into poetry,
threading stories until they can carry someone’s
questions without breaking.
By the time we step outside,
she has borrowed the leash from its hook
and is leading me down the street,
the dog’s paws whispering on wet pavement.
She always wants to be there at first light,
when the air is cool and the world is still deciding
what kind of day it will be.
She hides in the applause of students
who surprise themselves with brilliance,
and in the quiet pleasure when one of ours
is bound for Oxford or Stanford.
She laughs in the corridor hugs,
spins across the floor at the college dance-off,
vanishes for a while on weekend adventures
to Sydney’s best-kept secrets,
and curls up on the floor beside a sleeping friend
to keep watch through the night.
She loves the moment
when strangers become friends in a week—
when the walls come down.
She hums along to music
that changes key without warning.
She shows up unannounced
in the bush, hours from anywhere,
where the wind carries the scent of eucalyptus,
and again in late spring,
dressed head to toe in jacaranda purple.
Joy arrives early.
And if you pay attention,
you realise she never leaves.
The Afterword 
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