Nan
Image credit: Zoë Samson
Mōrena, Tama-nui-te-Rā! I say through squinted eyelids. I’m alone.
“Sunshine heals all wounds,” Nan says. I smile and wriggle my toes into the dirt.
I’ve woken up in time with the whenua.
Frozen hands grip my warm cup.
The scent of kawakawa and sweet herbs float lazily on the salted breeze.
The sun is rising.
Sand coloured hair licks my face, the knitted wool of the beanie feels soft against my ears.
The dog’s fat legs splish in the shallows.
A wave comes in, and he plays a game of chicken with himself.
The hilltops duck and dive on each other, the curves of Papatūānuku a deep pounamu green.
I seem to be standing in the centre of the world – the very core.
The sky is apricot, tangerine and peach.
I inhale.
Crisp air cools my lungs.
I wait.
I exhale.
The world seems to fade away.
All that is left is a Tūī, calling out to sea.
Nan’s wrinkled hand wraps around mine. She points to the ocean and I see the pōhutukawa trees lighting up the coast.
“Mokopuna look,” she says.
“Beyond these islands, far, far away, beyond this vast sea, is the land of your tūpuna, your ancestors. Hawaiki was our home.”
“Your ancestor, Paikea, he was bold and he was brave, a little like you, my mokopuna.”
Her warm brown eyes, flecked with light gaze upon me.
“Paikea was the whale rider. When his waka was sinking he escaped and rode upon a whale’s back in search of a home for our people… he was a descendant of Tangaroa, the god of the sea of course. On the back of the blue whale, he would glide through the oceans, for miles and miles.”
Wide-eyed, I stare at the ocean waves, my puku twisting as I think about the long journey of my tūpuna.
“After many long days and dark lonely nights, do you know what he saw, my mokopuna?”
My head shakes. .
“Te Ika a Maui. The fish of Maui.”
Nan wriggles her toes into the sand and giggles.
“The whenua of the North Island. The land of the long white cloud.”
She squeezes my hand, tight.
I exhale and the freckles return to my cheeks. Paikea is safe.
There we stand, facing our moana.
Silent, for a moment or two as the presence of our ancestors dance around us.
I pause a moment, just to listen.
To feel.
The tide greets the rocks.
Flecks of sand dapple upon my skin.
The sky is growing warmer, but there is something hidden in the pink and white clouds.
The stories of Paikea must have been 10 or so years ago now.
My nan has passed on.
Some people talk about her like she is gone as though she disappeared into thin air.
But she is still here. I can feel her.
I can feel her softness, her laughter, in the scent of the kowhai, in the songs of the tūī.
I can feel her bravery, the strength of her wit, in the crash of the waves.
I can feel her warmth through my cup of tea, her aroha from my hand-knitted pōtae.
I can hear her stories in the sea salt spray, in the breeze swaying through the nīkau.
I face out to the ocean, head-on, towards Hawaiki, towards Paikea, towards Nan.
The sweet lullaby of the Kererū disrupts my train of thought.
“Haere Mai, Nan,” I whisper.
“Welcome home.”
