It wasn't mine. Of course.

It was a cold Melbourne day. I'd been waiting for the St Kilda tram for half an hour. Or thereabouts. My memory seems to whirr and grind more than it used to.

Eventually, whirring and grinding up the tracks came the tram. Ding! It breezed to a halt, and I climbed on.

I think the young man behind me was being impatient, but I took my time. Stick. Steady. Left foot. Right foot. I tried to get to my seat before the tram took off. Sometimes I fall over if the tram moves suddenly.

This time, it didn't and I went to a seat near the front with a "Reserved for the elderly" logo. I sat down. The tram still hadn't lurched forward, and I looked around.

There were few people on board. Not surprising for a Tuesday lunchtime, I supposed. There was a young mother with her swaddled progeny sitting two seats down. A couple of Asian students were sitting close to each other, talking quietly and using their mobile phones.

Near the back, three youths with heavy Lebanese accents were energetically reliving their football game from the previous night, their grainy, jubilant voices echoing around the cabin like the corridors at the G. Nearer the front, one of the local homeless men sat with his collars pulled up around his ears. He was shivering, and the newspaper insulating his torso poked out around his neck as he moved. He talked to someone unseen.

The tram still hadn't moved, and I looked around to see the driver gesturing at me animatedly. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. I didn't hear very well anymore. It seemed like he'd been trying to get my attention for a while. He said something loudly about there being a "Good kid trying to help."

The young man was standing just next to me. His clothing was too small; a white t-shirt clinging to his sinewy shoulders like a drowned rat. He had white headphones jammed into his ears, cord twisting and trailing into his black jeans pocket. A black, red and white chequered belt saved his sparse pants plummeting to the depths of his ankles. The arm, his left, replete with angel tattoos reached out with a bag.

"You left this on the street."

I looked at him, confused.

I did? Oh. How embarrassing. I do that sometimes. I get forgetful. His tattooed knuckles and leather-bound wrist awkwardly, delicately, put the bag on my right knee.

The bag was brown, hessian. It was squared and had two handles. Like those new fangled green things that Coles and Woolies try to sell us. The hessian was moulting a bit.


The tram trundled off forward. I looked up to the mirror, the Arabic driver still shaking his head in frustration.

The bag was quite heavy; I couldn't remember what I'd put into it. I couldn't remember if it was my bag, actually. The heaviness felt like some cans of food. I like to make spaghetti, so I thought maybe I'd picked up some tomatoes at the supermarket.

I tried to put my hand inside the bag, but the opening is zipped closed. I fumbled with the zip. I was unsure; I didn't think the bag was mine. Why would they give it to me if it wasn't mine? My old hands don't open zips very well. Maybe someone kindly closed it for me. I must have forgotten about it. My memory had been going with age. I felt perplexed.

The creaking of the breaks whispered through my hearing aid like a ghostly shriek as the tram made a stop. We were still for a few seconds, and a young girl alighted. She had long black hair, porcelain skin and a forlorn look about her. Her midnight lips were pierced by a silver ring, her eyes surrounded by inky colours. She, too, had white headphones and angel tattoos. She moped to the back of the tram as it moved, and took out her mobile phone.

The bag was still on my knee. It felt cold through the hessian. I shoved my smallest finger into the small gap near the zipper's end and wriggled it. It moved open a few inches, but I still couldn't glimpse the contents.

I squeezed my hand into the bag. Maybe there was a small can of baked beans in there too. I liked baked beans. If it was a small one I could give it to the homeless man. It didn't feel like there was anything more than maybe three cans inside. Perhaps two big ones and a small one.

I'd been shopping earlier, but I couldn't remember what I had bought. I went to the newsagent for the paper, still under my arm. I wracked my mind for which cans I'd paid for. Still, it was nice for the driver to wait for the young man to get my bag for me. The young man was sitting a few seats down from me on the other side of the tram, nodding his head and white headphones.

I grasped the smaller can, it felt odd. It was small for a can of food. Still, it was cold and metallic and has a ridge at one end. Perhaps it was a can of beer. I couldn't think why I'd by a beer, except to give to someone. I turned the can on its side in my hand, so my thumb could hold it, just so. Then, I pulled it out of the bag.

Something beeped. Everything hot. Everything white. Someone, a scream. Everything red. Everything cold. Silence.

It wasn't my bag.

.