The night my father cut his hand and lost so much blood, I saw him stand and stagger pale-faced and uncomprehending doubtful of the floor’s ability to hold him up. My mother caught the spurting blood in a towel and sat him down and I slipped into a realm without sound, where movement too was subdued. The air was thick with frying fish and a bright fluorescent light sat upon the still life there – the bloodstained fisherman’s knife pointing at the half-full glass, the chopping board heaped with fillets, heads and guts. Outside, I saw a bird flitter and land on the verandah, cock its head – little blue-breasted wren – wait as if all breath had gone, all time had taken flight and left it there. Later, Dad lifted his glass, alive with beer and light, the injured hand so deftly bandaged, his pride pricked hardly, and made a joke about the resurrection; but the wren was still there stuck in a moment it hadn’t counted on: too much weight for its impetus, the curtain drawing back to show the actors and their props so inanimate and nothing at all to be done.