The sand still just a tiny bit warm under my bum. The
winds on-shore as always with the winter-cold night coming, running towards us almost
silent, making the smallest shells skitter in front of the waves.
“The eyes of God,” Mum said quietly. I was
day-dreaming about the fish in the waves, suddenly wishing I had those all-seeing
eyes. She nudged me, “Remember the names?”
“Ururangi?”
“The winds; one day they’ll carry you all the way up there.”
“Hello Pohutukawa,” she said quietly. Pohutukawa down
the bottom, for her Mum and Dad.
“Hiwa!”
“Good one. West. The new year; adventure. Like your
brother in Japan now.
“Waipuna-a-Rangi, further again. Rains. Africa? Wildebeest
and crocodiles.
“Tupuarangi up North, a little East, for food in the
trees. Oranges? Those California ones you love to turn into mouthguards.
“Tupuanuku further South, food from the soil. South
America? All those lovely roast potatoes.”
“Waita?”
“Yep, for the sea. A little closer, Australia? One day
you’ll catch a barramundi.”
“I thought that Waihi was for the sea, our star?”
“It is, maybe snapper, and scallops.
“See how, no matter where you go, I can see you, and
you can see me, ‘Nga-mata-o-te-Ariki’.”
--
Big Ben boomed a slow six. I was waiting on the 97 bus,
coming slowly to sway me over the Thames.
I turned the bone amulet at my neck, read the
inscription for the thousandth time.
“Ururangi, from Matariki, at Waihi, Aroha nui”.
Waihi, my Waiti. She would be sitting on the beach,
waiting on a hug.
