Tiny Stories

There are four books on my shelf. I can’t feel them, these electronic copies, but the pages are shining on my tablet, bright in the darkness of my room. It is cold, spine chillingly cold, as a southerly blows snow from the south, and only one dry-skinned hand emerges from layers of blankets. But the stories are of warmth, of growth, of learning to love again. Three “incredible” books I find boring, self-aggrandising, repetitive; a fourth fills in time during bouts of insomnia. I browse the shelves again, and his name appears, a man whose writing I adore. It is Albert Wendt, now in his 80s, tracing his life in Ponsonby, the garden he shares with aiga and friends. And a cat. Immediately I reconsider this man who I’ve held in awe for years, since I read "Ola" a decade or two ago. Tanoa: an aloof, bird-stalking, pillow-cruising cat. Wendt, writing about hip replacements, friends dying, Vegas losing its pull. Writing about cicadas and sweet tomatoes. There's a tiny slip of pap...

It’s the 1990s. We live in a quiet cul-de-sac in suburbia, a new home and a new baby, my heart full of love, my bank account stripped. We know our neighbours, a wonderful mix of families with kids and grandkids, divorcees and immigrants. We wave to a nervous Tracey as she drives off on her wedding day, her father pleased as Punch, her mother’s eyes wet with tears and pride. Less than six months later, we are in the chapel. Tracey is in her wedding gown, but we cannot see it, even though she takes centre stage. Her husband is distraught, a lifetime of hope gone. Celine Dion plays in the background, a song that I will forever associate with this beautiful bride, It’s All Coming Back to Me Now. As I sit at my computer today, listening to this long, dramatic ballad, I’m transported back to the chapel, to conversations, to happiness, to the intense grief. ~ The amygala, the hippocampus, the adrenal glands - these are all parts of our bodies which kick in, responding automatically to our en...