by Helen Genoni-Farnham

He was a very old man by then,
stooped, with a cane and ready smile.
Said he’d found it on a railway station
in Melbourne somewhere.
“I’ll give it to you if you like it.”
I took it to be polite, and still remember
his look of delight before he shuffled off.
That was 20 years ago.

I didn’t use it much at first,
then gradually it became a symbol of continuity (all grandfathers die)
and my companion for adventure.
Feminist and anti-nuclear marches in Melbourne,
Europe ’76, mustering cattle, skiing, sailing and climbing mountains.
I wore it and felt complete.
It was the only gift I had from him,
that red silk scarf.

Today I’m on another station – in India – and I realise it’s gone.
A few grams of silk seems such a heavy loss.
Yet I hold in my hand, another silk scarf, another omen,
given even before I knew all this.

And the beggars gape at the Memsahib with tears in her eyes.