Tramp

String tied his shoelaces and a piece of rope held his loose trousers around his hips. His face was dirty and his eyes gleamed. He smelt like he hadn’t washed for a month because he hadn’t. He pulled his filthy jacket around his chest for warmth and continued to walk. He had started in Sydney, with no real sense of purpose or direction, and had made it through Melbourne and was on his way out again. He had called his family before he left to let them know he was alive.

“Come home,” his mother had begged. “Please forgive me.”

He’d hung up without responding. He wondered if he would ever know what home meant. 

 

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