Published in Overland Issue 207 Winter 2012 · Uncategorized Islands Andy Quan I am sleeping tonight side by side with my mother on spring and feather, matching queen-sized mattresses, in the adjoining room my brother and his family. We’ve escaped Vancouver where father has died for Victoria’s quaint tea and saucers, halibut and chips, cream-filled chocolates, Salish art, a visit to eldest brother’s duplex, parks for the grandkids to run free. Distract us. Today, I leveraged grief for a table at a packed restaurant. How long can we get away with that? Mom ponders. Now, she surprises me, channel- surfing: CSI New York, Evening News. Rest is all I want, the narrow corridor between our beds, thirty-five years between us, our islands of sorrow barely visible to each other but I understand my role as company, as witness. Andy Quan Andy Quan is the author of four books, including two books of poetry, the most recent of which is Bowling Pin Fire. He has lived in Sydney since 1999 where he edits, writes, cycles, facebooks, watches reality TV cooking shows and coaxes rainbow lorikeets to his balcony. Visit him here at www.andyquan.com. More by Andy Quan › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 22 November 202422 November 2024 · Fiction A map of underneath Madeleine Rebbechi They had been tangled together like kelp from the age of fourteen: sunburned, electric Meg and her sidekick Ruth the dreamer, up to all manner of sinister things. So said their parents; so their teachers reported when the two girls were found down at the estuary during a school excursion, whispering to something scaly wriggling in the reeds. 21 November 202421 November 2024 · Fiction Whack-a-mole Sheila Ngọc Phạm We sit in silence a few more moments as there is no need to talk further; it is the right place to end. There is more I want to know but we had revisited enough of the horror for one day. As I stood up to thank Bác Dzũng for sharing his story, I wished I could tell him how I finally understood that Father’s prophecy would never be fulfilled.