The Golden Age

Frank has always suspected he had a vocation, although he inherited neither Ida’s musical ability nor Meyer’s handiness. Now he knows he’s a poet, and this conviction makes him feel like an adult, able to “overcome any hardship.” However, as with his childhood in Hungary, he doesn’t discuss it with anyone.

Between dinner and lights out, the children have free time. Most of the boys read or play board games, but Frank always goes outside. It’s a habit he inhereted from his parents, who always share an aperitif on the porch before dinner. Usually they stand quietly and look at the front yard, just as they stood at the rail of the ship when they arrived at Australia. Frank describes their posture not as defeated, but not hopeful either.

Frank wheels outside again, thinking over the poem that came to him during the afternoon. He writes it down in a prescription pad he swiped from the IDB in Perth. As he writes down the words, he realizes that the poem could be about Elsa or Sullivan, who taught him about poetry at IDB. All of Frank’s poems are in some way about Sullivan. Sullivan always told Frank that great poets must understand death, and that they have “an early advantage” in this respect.