Mourners are making their way down the hill from the family graveyard where we have laid our father to rest. They are streaming away through the sunset.
Together, we have stood beside his grave. We have listened as Tamati Kota blessed the ground into which our father was lowered. We have urged the diggers to work quicker with the chanting of a haka. We have told them to put their strength to the spade, so that our father is more quickly embraced by Papatūānuku, the Earth.
Weeping, we have lain the flower wreaths upon him. And, together, we have listened to Te Hinutohu intone an ancient lament.
It has rained; and we have all waited through the rain and through a burst of sun beside the grave of our father. We have not wanted to leave him.
Now, the sunset has come. When it first drifted through the clouds, we had begun to sing hymns. Softly. Quietly. Trying to find peace with ourselves. Trying to calm our sorrow for our father.
Now, we are leaving him. My mother’s arm rests on mine. My sisters and the little ones follow closely with her.
People stream before us; people follow after us. I guide my mother to the bottom of the hill.
She lets go of my arm and turns to face the hill where our father lies. The setting sun shines full upon her. The many emotions of sorrow flicker on her face. The tears spill quickly.
Then, from a well of strength within her, she calms her sorrow. With an angry gesture, she flicks her tears away. With pride, she looks upon the hill. And, slowly, she lifts her arm to our father.
Moe mai rā, Rongo! Moe mai! Moe mai! Moe mai!
Her voice is strong and ringing. It is fierce with pride and breaks the silence of the departing mourners.
Moe mai rā, Rongo! Moe mai! Moe mai! Moe mai!
All faces turn back to look at the hill. And many hands lift in the air, and many voices join my mother’s voice.
Moe mai rā, Rongo! Moe mai! Moe mai! Moe mai!
It is a cry of aroha, swelling louder and gathering in strength. It is an acclamation for our father.
It is the final farewell, echoed by Earth and Sky.
It is a roar of pride, before the slow descending of the sun.
My mother was the Earth.
My father was the Sky.
They were Ranginui and Papatūānuku, the first parents, who clasped each other so tightly that there was no day.
Their children were born into darkness. They lived among the shadows of their mother’s breasts and thighs and groped in blindness among the long black strands of her hair.
Until the time of separation and the dawning of the first day.