We found him that day sitting on a grassy patch,
With his worldly things,
Outside the building that would become the Museum of Contemporary Art,
At sparkling Circular Quay.
I remember his long grey beard,
Being sinewy and small,
With kind, cheeky eyes,
Skin worn hardy from living on the streets.
Growing up, we’d travel to Sydney for two weeks every year,
To the big smoke,
To visit our father.
As Dad’s do, he’d talk about us, but for 50 weeks of the year we were mirages,
For two weeks, he could prove we were real.
Like ducklings we’d follow him around the city.
He sought out Selby,
Finding him, he proudly displayed us.
Following my father,
We sat with him,
I can’t remember what we talked about,
But we talked,
And laughed.
The breeze from the quay cooling our skin burning hot from the summer sun.
Selby.
Sydney in the 80s,
Through a child’s eyes,
So different from the mountain.
One morning walking down an 80s Surry Hills street,
I remember my eyes being drawn to a tiny rivulet crossing the footpath in front of us.
It ran from an inert body, grey and dirty, almost the same colour as the street, heavy upon the footpath, clutching a brown paper bag,
To the curb.
“It’s pee”, my sibling tells me.
My eyes widen.
I’ve tried to find a picture of Selby,
I felt certain that the world wide web would have an image.
My memory is telling me there once was an article about him in the newspaper,
With a photo.
My search returns ether.
He’s in my memory, inseparable for me from Sydney itself.
I’m remembering you Selby.
And feeling the warmth of the sun as we all sit together,
Shooting the breeze.
To this day, I love people’s stories,
It’s my favourite thing.
Have a wonderful day! 🌱
