Geoffurst's Dad killed his Mum. Was it his fault? Or being Black in a white society? Or the freak weather of 76? Loss, anger and guilt permeate this story. My allegiances kept shifting, my perceptions changing. I was at times overwhelmed by powerful emotions. But there was enough humour, imagination and love to make the experience redemptive.
I am between Mum and Susie - who smelt like the cherry lip gloss slicked over her mouth. The Polaroid, a four-by-seven with a matt finish, has curled-up corners .... My left eye is looking at Uncle Leighton. My right is turned towards Susie. A cross-eyed bastard, always looking the wrong way. For fuck's sake turn your head around, watch him. I'm boss-eyed. Cockeyed. Nobody's to blame. It's not hereditary or anything. It just happens .... It's not my fault. My right eye - it's cast. I can't make out what's coming. See, I have a lazy eye.