Tiny Stories

I wake early, the waves crashing outside my window. It is early morning, and the salt-sprayed double-glazing struggles to keep the sound out. It is overwhelming, thunderous yet rhythmic, like the train that no longer runs on the track, its bridge destroyed by the cyclone. I open the doors and look into the sky, littered with stars, a lone truck or seabird punctuating the inhalations of the sea. This blog is “Tiny Stories” but there has been no room to write, no incentive. All the stories have been big: Gabrielle, bringing destruction and heart-break; weddings and funerals, laced with sorrow and joy; rising prices and frugal habits. The safety net is torn, and people are retracting. Or fighting. Energy wasted on competing when collaboration is the key. Library books on grief and poetry collections litter my house: the words a comfort for me and those I tend to. Lucy Hone , New Zealand’s own resilience expert; a tiny guide to sit in the palm of your hand or gift to a friend who need

“Have you got sun over there today?” he asks, texting from Taupo. “Not if shadows are a measure of sunshine” I reply, the cloud cover keeping the rays hidden from us. My friend used to live an easy two hour's drive away, the state highway now a mass of crevasses and broken bridges, an impossible journey. The ground closer to home is both vibrant and sodden, silt and rotting vegetables in contrast to our normally parched summer landscape. Sunshine is what we need here in Hawke’s Bay, the idyllic region devastated by Cyclone Gabrielle. The fruit bowl of New Zealand, the resort town, the Art Deco hub, a destination for wedding parties and retirees. Too much water, in too little time, has wreaked havoc, taking lives, destroying livelihoods. Heavy rain on my roof nearly a fortnight after the event has me on edge, the adrenalin pumping through my body. I dream of throwing bags into my tiny car, of searching fruitlessly for my passport, of forgetting important things. Yet I am lucky –

  We are rehearsing for the memorial service, a tribute to all the people who have been in the care of this incredible funeral home over the last year. I am confidently reading the names, most easy to pronounce, a few tricky when the origins are unknown – is it Hine (like pine?) or Hi-ne? It’s why we rehearse. That, and to test our speed. There are names on the list I know well, people whose families I have comforted, whose final ceremonies I’ve created, who I have only met after they have passed. It sounds trite, but it is a privilege, this mahi. And then I read the name. It is his, my friend, the one I have been meaning to visit, ever since I arrived here in winter of 2021, the winter of discontent; the winter I carved out a new life for myself. Later I ask the team: when did he die, and the answer is July, just four short months ago. But it is too late. I am too late. Too late to say I’m sorry you’re sick; too late to say I like your art; too late to say goodbye. Two days late

There are two other celebrants in the room, as guests settle into their seats, music playing gently in the background. One sits in the front row, just an arm’s reach away. He is tall and handsome and suited, a visitor from Auckland, the city I have abandoned. The second is at the back of the room twiddling with the technology, my script at his side. He is also suited, a silver fox whose voice you’ll hear on the radio, honeyed and inviting. Today he is the funeral director, alongside a woman I’ve got to know well these last few months, as we bow reverently to the casket at the front of the chapel, eight, nine, ten times together. One is open; one is homemade, a lilac so pale and cool; one is adorned with a sword; one is smooth and curved. I am thankful there are none that are tiny, a task I’m unsure I could carry through. I am in the middle of the eulogy when he walks in, catching my eye. He is also suited, this special man that knows my family, has held my parents as they lay silently

I’ve woken early, and before I let the cat into our room, I lie there wondering. What would make me change my mind? There’s a message from a connection on LinkedIn, asking me to join him for a Zoom. Not another person persuading me to buy something I don’t want or need, I moan silently to myself. But I pause: there’s something about the message that resonates, that piques my interest. The cat is in. She stands on my hair, paws my pillow, and purrs loudly. She’s a creature of habit, and 4:30 is time to get up and moving. Other habits – the way she eats her food, responds to toddlers, snuggles in at night - are a part of who she is, this ball of fluff who chose us nearly 17 years ago. Like her, I’m a creature of habit. Coffee (hot and sweet) and toast (homemade nut butter), Wordle (share it with my friend), before the day begins proper. But sitting here this morning, I wonder what it would take to change my mind, to persuade me to try something different. Do I listen to reason, or am

  There’s one small, cheap bedside unit, its handle replaced with copper buttons, giving it a vintage look. As I move it - and me - to the other side of the bed, I wonder why it’s taken me a year to try another position. And yet my sleep is tormented. Outside, heavy rain soaks the already sodden ground, the incessant sound keeping me awake. I’m hot, I’m cold, I’m dozing, I’m alert. What is it about this side that’s so different to the other? I can’t say I’m new anymore: 12 months have passed since I moved south, away from the madness and excitement that’s Auckland. The buzz of the metropolis, crazy drivers who own the road, endless restaurants and Two Dollar shops in the burbs. I miss my son, I miss my friends, I miss Pride, and the colours of the rainbow. Thank goodness for Auckland Libraries online catalogue. “The Gift” is open on my tablet, and also “Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science & Sex.” These days, I’m not compelled to finish books, or even to read every word. I s