The Roots — How Sosta Learnt About Uno

Sosta burst through the door with sand still clinging to her legs.

“This one’s had a big day down at the beach,” her mum said.

Her father looked up from the stove.

“Ah, is that right?” he smiled. “See any great whites?”

“I wish!” Sosta laughed.

The kitchen smelled of garlic and tomatoes. Something simmered slowly in a pot while her father moved around the stove with the relaxed patience he seemed to bring to everything. He liked cooking that way—slowly. He said food should take the same time as conversation.

Sosta grew up in a house where people spoke about the world as if it were alive. Her mum would say things while they were walking, washing dishes, or driving somewhere, as though the words had simply been waiting their turn.

“You are Ngunnawal,” she would say, gesturing across the bush. “and this is Yuin country.”

The land didn’t look any different from anywhere else to Sosta, but her mum said it anyway.

“It was here before us,” she said. “And it will be here after.”

Once, Sosta asked if that meant the land belonged to someone. Her mum shook her head.

“No,” she said gently. “It means we belong to it.”

That answer made more sense to Sosta.

Her father explained things differently. He talked about gardens and neighbours and fishing trips where everyone brought something, because no one had everything.

“Nothing’s wasted,” he would say while chopping vegetables. “It just changes form.”

Most of the talking happened in the kitchen. Her dad cooked without recipes. If something ran out, they ate something else.

“You don’t fight the season,” he said. “You work with it.”

One evening, while stirring a pot, he said something that stayed with Sosta.

“This,” he said, “is Uno.”

“Uno?” she asked.

“It just means one.” He pointed to the table.

“One meal.”

Then he gestured around the kitchen.

“One family.”

Then out the window, where the trees moved slowly in the evening wind.

“One world.”

Then up toward the sky.

“One universe.”

Sosta frowned.

“I don’t get it.”

Her father thought for a moment.

“Do you remember Mr. Costa?” he asked. “Our neighbour? The one who complained about the mulberries?”

Sosta groaned.

“They were hanging over our fence.”

“Exactly,” her father said. “But he still wouldn’t let us pick them.”

Sosta nodded.

“That’s the opposite of Uno.”

“What do you mean?”

“When people start keeping score,” he said. “When they forget they’re part of something bigger.”

Her mum laughed from the sink.

“Careful,” she said. “That doesn’t mean Mr. Costa is a bad man.”

“No,” her father agreed. “Just someone who forgot how things work.”

Sosta thought about that for a moment. Before she went to wash her hands, she turned back.

“Is that why you don’t like phones?”

Her father smiled.

“I don’t mind phones,” he said. “I just don’t like it when people forget to sit together.”

He set the pot on the table.

“Come,” he said. “Dinner.”

Sosta grew up with both of her parents’ ways of understanding the world. Her mum spoke about country and Dreaming stories. Her dad spoke about food, culture, and life. They never argued about which one was right. They simply lived.

And Sosta grew up knowing both were true.