Tiny Stories

A helicopter hovers high above me, the buzzing dot juxtaposed against the clouds edged with sunlight, reminiscent of the Ascension. I am not Catholic, but even I am surprised when I recognise this term and share it with my husband all those years ago. I am even more surprised to find that - as we attend a friend’s wedding - my responses are automatic. “Peace be with you,” he chants, “and also with you” I reply without hesitation. A suburban chick in the country, we pile into the car with his endless siblings, off to the early morning mass, my first foray into ritual and ceremony, my own family devoid of such things. I watch The Virgin, the pressed robes of the priest, take in the smells of humanity and incense, the shuffling as he genuflects in the aisle. I absorb more than I know. © S andy Millar - available on Unsplash Back in the moment, I watch the helicopter, framed with heavenly light, I wonder about their rituals, these pilots. Getting the call, the adrenalin starts pumping thro

I am eight or nine, in Standard 3 in a tiny rural community just out of Gisborne, still years away from being a famous wine region. My new teacher is very hip - long hair and long legs, culottes and very sporty, a talented hockey player. I adore her, and her husband, tall and handsome and so chilled. When they offer to share photos of their trip overseas, I join the older people in the room, mesmerised by the atmosphere, the anticipation.  Slide after slide is full of colour, of dust, of intrigue, of flowing robes. I remember three: a vehicle (car, truck, bus?) stacked high and overflowing with people and baggage; intricate prayer wheels; and women in burka. It is 1973, and here in Aotearoa, these full face coverings are yet to be seen. Later - much later - I will help women in the early morning corridors of Middlemore Hospital, their polished English accents emerging from behind their Muslim robes, their fear and anguish clear at that hour of the day. I digress, as I am wont to do, me

“He’s your favourite,” he moans, looking distraught and hurt. I laugh. No, not out loud, but the laugh that only parents know, maybe only mums. This is not a zero sum game. Every child is precious, welcomed to the world with open arms. As I write this, I realise it is true in my privileged corner of the world, unconscious bias raising its head, as it does. There are many babies that come forth unwanted, but today I will write of my experience, my aroha, my life. I remember Sofie’s Choice , a movie so powerful, so raw. I see Meryl Streep, beautiful even in her gauntness, standing in the dark by the grimy railway track, the soldiers demanding she must decide: her daughter or her son? An impossible choice, and one I hope never to make. (Photo: Rob McEldowney, circa 1999) But this post is not about favourite children, (except that it is). It’s about favourite books, favourite songs (strains of Julie Andrews ring in my ears - “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens”), and favourite foo

While the rest of the country is being shaken awake by a 7.1 earthquake, I lie sound asleep in my bed, two consecutive night’s of decent slumber tucked away in reserve. I finally rouse at 5:00.p.m., checking my phone, reading the news, a sense of relief that no-one is injured in this scary natural event. Sans reading glasses, I swipe across to my email, and my heart flutters when I see a message from my website, a sign of work, of income, and a sense of something worthwhile. My expectation turns to dismay, as I read the message from Mel White, purportedly a certified illustrator. I like the name Mel - the Mels I know are lovely people - and I already trust this woman. And yet the message quickly turns nasty, accusing me of stealing images. The language is passive-aggressive, an attempt to be simultaneously engaging and threatening. “Breaching copyright”, “previous email,” “sued by the creator.” Yeah right. I’m pretty confident I have the permission to use these images on my website, th

My mother leaves in autumn. It is not text book dying, pain carefully managed in a contemporary setting, but a struggle for her to go. The nursing staff are kind, but there is only so much you can do at the end without breaking the laws of our country. I think about birthing, the intense but somehow worthy pain of labour, and wonder if death is the same, hard work to let ourselves go, stubbornness and fear slowing the process. We drive across the region, wineries and orchards marking the space between the twin cities. He chooses the Cadillac, mum’s last ride the classiest of her life. There are just the three of us: me sitting oddly on the right minus a steering wheel to hold; mum in the back, her koru-crested casket a nod to simplicity. When we arrive, I place the flowers from my friend’s garden on top of the poem, grateful for their colour and compassion. “If I die in autumn”, I begin as I stand beside her at the catafalque. It’s a couple of days short, but she wouldn’t mind. Already