I had unpacking plans for the weekend and I find it difficult to ditch the mind set but I scale it down. Grant, the neighbour, comes over to talk me through his fence handiwork. Hmmm. It's a bit mind blowingly overwhelming to add to my emotional overwhelmedness. Words fail me. It's tall and ugly, unfortunately, because he's done it all himself. Tells me we can tweak it and I'll get used to it and stop seeing it. Not sure. But I put it to one side and attack the kitchen. I wipe the cupboard and drawer insides and put things away. A sprinkling of kitchen ware, harbinger of human habitation. Kahu and I specifically. It's our place. We'll be here and familiar soon, make it and shape it and infect it with humanity.
For now, I've other fish to fry and there's only one way to get to that kitchen. A six hour drive. So I pack up, shivers of foreboding, of trepidation because I'll be confronting the eerie absence death brings. The hollow spaces and the silent walls. I notice little scenery and hang onto the wheel going over Burke's Pass into the Mackenzie as the rain pelts down. It's intense, visible evidence of higher humidity generated by climate change.
At Omarama I take a picture of the Oamaru stone ram outside the petrol station. I have a picture of Kahu on the ram's back, aged about 3. Souvenir of one of the many journeys south to see Tui and Lionel. When I arrive at the house I'm there alone. Sadness and loss wash over me. I walk into Lionel's room and have a one-sided chat. Why isn't he there, like he's supposed to be? Or on the couch? I wanted to spend more time. The house is empty, I'm searching for Lionel's presence, as I felt Tui close by for a long time after she went, but his energy is elusive. Perhaps he's cleared out, 100 years is a long time to breathe, to eat, to be. Perhaps his spirit just wants out as his body gave release. I'll never know how he felt as his physical body let go, but I'm glad he's safely on his last trip home.
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