...conjures up my father who loved the beaches of Indonesia more than any person. Here he is, in my curtains and tablecloths, the browns and yellows, gold of the whole world, wrapping round me. The fields wild stubble...there is the man. If I could, I would paper the walls in batik patterns. No matter, I'd still see him walking away, through the haunted door, long gone down the dirt lane. A lifetime ago and I still want to howl like a left-behind animal.