Well, another week (and more), but the mangroves haven't miraculously recovered. Not sure why I am expecting them to. But I look up each morning in the hope that they will be better, or at least a little bit improved.
On occasion, I consider the practical reality that one day, I will have to move out of West End. I think about sun-bleached Coorparoo, distant Wynnum, utterly suburban Ashgrove, and the other pockets of Brisbane with which I have a basic familiarity. When I compare the colour and recklessness and history of West End, all of the other places seem sorely wanting. But unless I can stay in my small townhouse for the rest of my life, or fall over a pile of money, leaving is inevitable.
I had a moment during the floods - perhaps a few hours, as the water rose - when every bone in my body wanted to sell the townhouse immediately, for whatever price, and move up a hill. The Gap, Highgate Hill, wherever the stinking, rising water couldn't creep. I drove around the northern suburbs while exiled, where you would never have known about the disaster unfolding to see the families strolling in the bright morning light on their unexpected day off.
That feeling went away. I want to stay, as long as possible. But I want to walk down Ryan Street without thinking about the destruction and sadness, looking for hints of the tide-line on the houses to determine just how unlucky each home was. I want the re-building works all around me to be finished. I want the mangroves to grow back.
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