I placed your younger self as a carbon copy of your father next to him in front of the Holy Trinity in Wangaratta where your spiritual and musical journey started. Your father stands in front of the tower, and you, in your black choir cassock, to his right, held by his crude right red hand, with only the softly weeping sky above you. I clothed your father in a suit (not a cat costume) and I painted the painting like a child. An old child. An old child whose mother did not want her to be ‘golden.’ She hoped for her to stay somewhat naive but become strong and real; to live, to live well, and to die in good time.

You were held in a police station when your father died? I was in an exam. Not just any exam—the exam that would decide whether I would drop out of university or continue to try, not just with my studies, but with everything that was important to me. I got a good grade and a scholarship to study in Japan, but I never managed to return to that feeling that used to speak of identity, safety, certainty, and belonging.

There’s a sad and very human story attached to why the prodigal daughter felt the desperate need to return home to her father’s protection on that day of all days. There is probably a similarly sad and all-too-human story about how you ended up in prison on the day your life hit that quantum leap of loss. I was 22 years old.

But never mind. Never mind.

Cordula