He parked the car in the loving memory of his mother and father. He sat inside for a while. Put a palm flat on the windscreen. Fingers traced out thin branches of the jacaranda tree outside and they waved in the slight wind and the glass of the windscreen was cool. He hesitated getting out of the car. He was grown now. Approaching forty. A silver moustache in the side mirror. The eyes still clear. Two valleys of wrinkle, the broken and upturned ‘v’ on his face, seperating his cheeks from nose and lips. He heard the soft rustle of the jacaranda leaves and he wondered if the soft blue jacaranda blooms rustled. Maybe they simply rubbed each other in silence. The air inside the car was tight, it wrapped around his head like a slight headache. There was something heavy pulling him down, fixing him to the car seat. It was quiet inside his head but it was sad. He felt the gravity of depression. This is how his father would have parked the car — with his nagging mother in the backseat. Reversing into the spot. He didn’t have anyone to bring with him to this. He wanted somebody to nag him from the back seat. He was still the small boy in his father’s car.