Grief shunts memory back and forth like carriages on a set track, following a timetable of before and after. With the shrieking of the train’s whistle, I am brought forward to the present, watching as the people on the railway platform put their hands over their ears. Then the whistle fades away.
Time for me to go, Mum.
Āe, she nods. Ka haere koe.
With love, I look upon my family. Here stands my mother, Rīpeka and Mere, and the two youngest. Rīpeka has a baby daughter and is hapū with her second.
My heart begins to ache. I try to contain my sadness. Eyes, close out the world. Let me stay a while longer here with my whānau.
Mum turns to Mārama and Hōne. Look at your big brother, she says. He’s worse than you kids. You were both good compared to him.
They laugh and yell. Tama’s a crybaby, Tama’s a tangiweto!
You better get on the train, Mum continues. Otherwise it will leave without you.
We press noses in the hongi. The deep sighs of sadness are the winds gathering from Waituhi, our home. The winds converge, the winds join. They bring memories of the tangihanga from Tawhiti Kaahu, the graveyard where the earth still lies warm above my father.
Come to me, Mārama. You too, Hōne. Don’t forget what I told you kids. You’re the bosses while I’m away.
The train whistle blows a final blast. The porter hastens along the platform: All aboard. Move away from the train, please.
All around me, other goodbyes are being said: Give our love to Jim … Thanks for having me, Uncle … Bye bye, Susan … Don’t forget to write, Dear … Goodbye.
I look towards the hills. The mist is lifting, the sun flooding the sky. Nestling among the hills is Waituhi, my home, my whānau.
And then, as I go to step aboard the train my mother grabs me and forces me to look deep into her eyes.
Rīpeka’s not the only one who’s good at laying down an ambush. Mum’s the expert.
Son, Mum begins, how can you be certain? That coming back here is right for you?
Rīpeka and Mere try to stop Mum’s agitation. Mum, they plead, we’ve been through all this before, please let it go.
My mother won’t be stopped. She is panting hard. Her teeth are clenched. The way she’s holding my arm hurts.
You’ve been living in Wellington for two years now, she says to me, and don’t tell me you don’t like it there. You left us willingly to go there, you wished to follow its siren call and you have succumbed to its seductive ways; Dad and I could not stop you. You have a life and career in the Pākehā world and … even a Pākehā girlfriend.
Oma rāpeti, oma rāpeti … bang, up comes her shotgun.
And Mum breathes in.
I don’t want you to come back to us, Tama, if the only reason why you do is because you think it’s your duty. I will have a say in the matter. Although your Dad’s gone he would want you to make your own choices in your life, who you are, where you want to be. I can take on the farm myself, if I need to. I don’t need you.
My mother’s outburst is passionate and forceful. Pākehā bystanders look at her alarmed.
Is every mother like mine, able to look into their children’s hearts and uncover their secrets?
Everything happens quickly then. Steam hisses from beneath the train. The couplings grow taut, strain, then jerk tight. The express begins to move.
Once, Dad was my mother’s guiding star. But he has drifted beneath the reddening horizon.
Her grip tightens. She won’t let go. The train moves down the platform and still our hands are linked.
Until the express moves faster, forcing our fingers apart.