Awa

 

Masses of dark ringleted hair waving from the open window of the station wagon crawling away along Fairfield Road after school, trailing back to catch in the rusty roof racks, a final, slow farewell.

The same wagon where I found him, fast asleep stretched along the back seat, one Saturday morning when our school boy cricket was about to start. ‘Too many cousins in there’. Said it tossing his head toward the two-storey state house, tossing that hair. Took five wickets and hit a six.

He played hooker, me, lock, in high school rugby. Huge opponents would tear at me in every ruck, until voluptuous hair would cover me, shield me, blanket me, safe.

Hot summer, heat sat down in that town, refused to leave. He was at the river, the mighty Wai, jumping off the pier with the big boys. The strong flow caught the weed, reefed at it so that huge swathes of darkness rose and fell, rose and fell. His hair mimicking the swirl as he rose, gasping up into the sun. The small boy jumped, and didn’t rise, and he followed, down, down, down so long. Told me so much later of the hands, pulling, pulling so his hair was gone in clumps, pulling so he could feel each last, lost word.

Years later, a late-night petrol stop, passing through. Same smile, languid smile, behind the counter. Shaven head shining. ‘He was there, in the hair. Now, just the Awa, Awa, safe’.