Soon by Hana Stretton

Hay was stomped deep into the shag carpet. the place still smelt of Bid; immortalised in the many winter fleeces thrown around, used everyday on her icy 5am walk to feed the animals. I continued to live on the farm on my own after. 2020, I was 25, fresh with grief when I started making Soon.

I eyed the tall dry wheat grass with suspicion during the bushfires. Spent mornings walking paddocks in boots and undies, checking for spot fires; a bag of carrots in hand, ready to tempt another animal to a kinship. To join a growing family of wombat cubs, cows and two stray horses that I regularly sat and talked with.

The blinding rays of the sun had vanished with the smoke. Leaving a perfectly exposed orange blister, hanging up there, looking limp and embarrassed. I stared straight into the midday sun with one eyebrow raised , ‘now whats your big plan here today miss?’

Watched fire burn up the hill to the right of the house. And as the world darkened, reality distorted. Cyclists still trained on abandoned highways, thick with smoke and car crash, I saw the river (usually brimming with water) start to crack into perfect desert hexagonal tiles. Time wore on and it became reflex to wipe each knife & fork or viola or tape deck free of ash before use. I began thanking clouds.. asking birds for news.. speaking to ghosts.. bartering with gods I don’t believe in.

Smoke cleared and I was grateful to every lovely day that came after. I slowly worked on music; learnt to use the 8 track and how to play the few instruments given to me by locals tom n woody. I recorded outside on days that weren’t too windy, dancing and pecking nonsense into a mic, set up at a distance. The world was thick with sound and so the music mimicked.

Every few days I would go into Bungendore town, to grab supplies, touch the human earth and make sure that life was still rolling on. I felt such a longing to speak to someone, tell them something funny that happened, but I knew no-one. I loved that full feeling; a fat belly of desire. I was ‘that’ person, holding up a line as I asked the cashier at FoodWorks a tenth question about her life. Giant dumb smile on my face.

Big floods came two months later and the river ran so high.‘The Architect’s Apprentice’ was one of the books I remember most vividly accompanying those cold winter nights. I sat, absorbed in Elif’s world in front of an old gas heater, which hummed loudly with rows of blue flames. Many months of no internet or phone meant my brain and ears had finally perked up, outside of it, all dials turned up.

This love for animals, for people, for plants, for water, grew and calcified into bones. And although there were days I crawled into a ball, unsure of what to do, I always found encouragement from Big Mama nature herself, the awe and owl in the tree cooing “ c'mon c’mon ”

Bid used to tell me, “ Theres a lot of work for love to do ” ... so, as cheesy as it is.. I think thats all of it, And then, soon enough

( written by Hana in 2024 )

on Lummi, Samish, Klallam, Tulalip and W̱SÁNEĆ land

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