She brings the salad (green beans, red peppers, garlic
pine nuts),we drink red wine, talk about how what is given—
land, a heart, is forever, this year, next year, sometime, never
how one falls in love and why – what was it really
that changed my world. There were days when I thought
if I explained the position clearly it would all be okay —
now I know better. I fell in love with a principle, I say.
But – she’s my moko after all — it began, it began…
the laughter, the tears, one day, one moment, one beat
I looked out – all these kids playing in my backyard
and whammo – it occurred to me that if we lived there
my kids would be classed as coloured, there would be none
of this here business – cowboys and Indians and a Chinese
sheriff, a Maori good guy (he had the hat), Pakeha/Maori Indians
behind bushes or round the corner or up the woodshed roof
chucking plums, sometimes just the stones and yelling gotcha
I hope you don’t mind me asking? – she places the lightly
fried haloumi on top of the salad – everything starts with a moment
and that moment leads to a letter-box with Fuck off Bitch on it and
that leads to Fowlds Park and Patu and who cleans the toilet and
why don’t we say anything when he hits her – and why why why
and then why not why not? Simple. One moment leads to another
moment to this moment when she leans back on the couch, we sip wine
and she does not ask was it worth it Nanny? So – so – I say –
it’s the salad, the mix of chemistry and context, the after-taste
of moments, some bitter as rocket, heady as mint or wry as chives
your choice, my choice – dressings of oil, vinegar, rue or rosemary
I regret nothing, I say. Nothing? Nothing.
Renée
