I am my mother’s daughter. I hear her speaking when I speak, here, in this place where I am different and far from home. I hear her laughing when I laugh and it stops me, every time. I don’t feel lonely when I hear her.

I am my father’s daughter, the one who says ‘yes’ and jumps into the creek before anyone else; the one who sits and watches the birds and the ants and the fish in the sea for as long as he is able.

I am my grandfather’s granddaughter. We never met, but I wear his skin, share his freckles, had a cancer cut from the same place on my cheek as he.

I am my granny’s granddaughter. We share a jawline, a mouth, a love of dry humour.

I am my sister’s sister. She is my opposite, and my younger twin. We oscillate around each other, each the other’s centre, each volatile, each calm, each wanting more from the world.

I am at home in the heat, in open skies and clear water spaces.

I am from Australia, and a family of blue-eyed curly-haired dry-witted people.

They are home, and they are with me.