By the time he sliced the magret de canard,
served room temperature,
Nico, Louise and their teen daughter Lily, as tall as Padme,
arrived from Singapore and Spain.
Her brother, my favourite baby boy,
we'd babysat,
independent, off at uni in Canberra.
Kids connected since birth in Hong Kong,
finishing each other's words,
switching between native languages mid-sentence,
Australian and German passports each.
Wasabi challenges,
diving through inflatable rings into the pool,
"the condensation, Cleo!"
It means Nico teaching my youngest not to interrupt,
to wait for the pause.
It means disappearing with Louise for hours,
to be heard,
to be seen,
to be gotten.
Spending time with Nico and Lou means
afternoons of sitting with Louise at the kitchen counter,
slicing cucumber,
dicing tomatoes,
crushing garlic,
watching the boys pan fry baguette,
sliced in butter,
roast croutons,
sprinkle rosemary from my herb planter,
slow-prep entrecôte in the oven,
pan-fry apple slices,
peel prawns,
de-vein prawns.
It means driving south to Biarritz in two cars,