The Itinerants

Two heads of hair extend from the bedding, one fair and glossy, the other darker. They lie a respectable distance apart, the back door of the van open to the rising sun, the rhythm of waves, the smell of salt. It is early morning, and I am walking with a woman I've just met, our conversation easy and relaxed as we stride it out along the waterfront. Later, much later, I discover she is a palliative care nurse, and I know our meeting is more than chance.

The day before, I have taken the car, beach-combing my goal, convincing myself that walking on the stones is giving my calves and heart a workout to counter the shorter distance. There is evidence of an animal, an ivory hip tempting to take. I pick it up, hold the sea-smoothed bone in my hand, and gently place it back when it belongs. A teepee of skinny driftwood is above high tide, and tire marks illicitly cross the grass and the stones. Burnt logs, too big to move, sit high, high up. Here I discover charcoal, and carefully remove a piece, a gift for an artist I know.




Not far from where my grandfather is buried, my father scattered, I park, ready to be protected against the virus. The rooms is already full, an ambience that reminds me of polling day, of times when Kiwis come together to make a difference. As we wait, post-shot, the woman in front turns to me, and we strike up a bracketed conversation, finding common threads and shared experience, swapping Insta accounts, a promise to meet again.

It is late afternoon when I get the call I have been waiting for, and I ready myself to return home to Auckland, my mahi calling me. Home? Not sure where home is, I wonder if I am simply another itinerant just passing through. This transition has drawn me from the metropolis, and for now I sit in the peace of provincial New Zealand. There is art here, and death, memories and new adventures.

“Are you settling in?” they all ask, and I wonder what reply they expect. My head is muddled, my thoughts and emotions murky. Then Rumi comes to me, his words timeless and profound:

"Let me sit here on the threshold of two worlds, lost in the eloquence of silence."



 

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