Tiny Stories

  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

I gasp as I open the magazine - a gift from a friend - its plastic wrap carefully removed this time. It’s been sitting on the kitchen bench for a couple of days now, waiting for a space, a time to unfurl when the monotony of life needs to be banished. My gasp turns to palpable excitement, as the face of a woman I know graces the page.  It is Noline, and memories flood through my brain, simultaneously vague but strong. I am ready to read, but I change tack, flicking a message to her: “OMG Nols, I’ve just seen it,” my delight heightened by the discovery on a dull grey Sunday morning. Jumping online, I send a message to The Kids, a tiny group of four, my sons and their gorgeous and talented girlfriends. Sharing this news right now is important, a thread that runs through all our lives, defining who we are. When my oldest son explains she is “the principal” I say that is not enough to describe a woman that is such a force of nature.  She was a co-conspirator, mentor, and friend, I tell the

She asks us to write, as we sit alone in our kitchens, our bedrooms, our cupboards, the glow of others’ laptops beaming through our screens. I shuffle, I stand, I adjust the lighting, not sure that I like what I see reflected in the glass tonight. It’s been a tough day, and I am bruised, deeply. The irony strikes me like the freight trains I hear at night when the prevailing wind blows. My kindness, my diligence, my attempt to support others’ well-being has ended in my own being irreparably damaged. The world is hurting right now, so I am right at home with millions of others, just when I thought I was immune. Let me tell you about marriage. This is our prompt from the gentle woman who is leading the creative writing webinar. “Just let it flow,” she says, as my pencil hovers above the untidy scribbles on the page. I cannot write about marriage. There is nothing in my head, nothing of value. For who am I to tell you about marriage, a woman without a husband? I feel disingenuous, a phony

I arrive early for the wedding, on a hot summer's day in Hawkes Bay. It's an auspicious date - or at least a memorable one - a palindrome and an ambigram, I'm told - the same backwards and upside down: 22022022. It is early, so we hide inside, the aircon buzzing, a few guests waiting under the trees outside. A name from the past shoots past my ears, and my subconscious starts ticking over. I look at the man, his height, his laughter, and it clicks. We were school mates, 46 years ago. We hug, we laugh, and he reminds me my hair was jet black back then. It is two years since my mum died. She was a gentle woman who loved pansies.  After my gorgeous brides say their vows, I drive to meet Mary for a commemorative afternoon tea. I have promised I'll bring the crockery, and she is puzzled to say the least. When I unpack the fine bone china from the bag, in mum's favourite colour, she gets it: it's our way of celebrating the Life of Joy, her crafty friend and confidant.

It is 1980, and I am sitting in the picture theatre with two excited young boys, a mystical blend of their Welsh mother and Indian father. They are my charges, and in the darkened room, the smell of popcorn wafting around us, the music begins. Words start to float away from us on the huge screen, already iconic and highly anticipated. Leaving our once plush red seats, we are transported into outer space, enough familiarity to make this real, to identify heroes and the enemy, good and evil. Later, in the brilliant sunshine, we fight with light sabres, we deepen our voices, we build the Death Star. We are hooked. I am back in the city, 40 years of living separating me from the movie. For once, the cat hasn’t woken me, but it is the witching hour, 4:00 am. My powers are many, but I am not a witch. The scales in the Netherlands, the home of my children’s ancestors, proving that I am without sorcery. I part the curtains, the still night offering a glimpse of the skies above. I push the wind

On a thoughtful Thursday afternoon, I am grateful for:  A cat to pat   An afternoon nap   The Stuff Quiz - twice a day, or legitimate binge if I’ve missed a couple   My meditation stool (even though I rarely sit on it, I love the concept, the design, the form, the discipline)   My lemon lime dracenas … and all the babies I’ve propagated and gifted to friends and family   The Canon Prime 100mm macro lens, you will always be my favourite, I can love no other   Creating - even if it’s just lists like this (thank you Austin Kleon for the inspiration today)   Water - to drink, wash in, cook with, swim in, sprinkle on the garden   My Kindle Highlights, a library of the best bits and a source of inspiration for my ceremonies   Summer fruit, the stones robbed of all their succulent flesh    

The bird is tucked hard up into the corner of my house, and I know straight away it is dead, murdered by a night-wandering cat. I reach down, and gently pick it up, nestling its feather-weight in my hand, as the tears begin to fall. It is evening, and I hear tapping outside the window. I quietly open the window, as the setting sun streams into my house, dust motes floating on the cooling air. It is then I see it, camouflaged against the stones, a baby thrush searching for snails under the pittosporums. I throw a tiny piece of bread, a peace offering, my cat securely locked inside. I am re-reading What Remains , the debut novel by Aussie writer, academic and international traveller, Denise Leith. A love story interspersed with war and conflict and the unimaginable things that we humans do to each other in the name of race or creed or politics. It is strangely compelling and deeply disturbing. Last time, I read the stories with distance, my own troubles seemingly large. This time … this

I share Austin Kleon’s post, 100 things that made my year , and one person challenges me to write my own, and encourage others to do the same. But I like Austin (from Austin) - he’s young (it’s relative!) and playful and bold and scared and real. His ezine and posts have kept me going this last year, as I pledge to create a habit, a habit of creativity . Never one to let a challenge go by, or follow the rules (100 is overwhelming), I start writing, and generate a list. So here, in no particular order, are 27 things that made my year in 2021. Twenty seven into 21 - that's 1.285... Bunnie: notoriously hard to photograph but fun to try. Being bold enough to ask for a piece of art in exchange for a funeral, the heavy cast bunny a tribute to a special woman, a kindred soul who left too soon. And - as if it comes with a bonus - the forging of a friendship with her long-time friend, another who makes the journey far from home, and needs company and time to build shared memories. Walking t