When I was on the other side of the world
I wanted nothing more than to come
Back home.
Home to me was
Ha’ateiho.
My parent’s small, creaky
wooden house
surrounded by vibrant
red teuila and
fragrant siale and pua flowers
that the church steward's wife and daughters
would ask for cuttings of
to decorate the church we haven’t been in
since our father died.
Home to me was
a plate of hot luu moa and
slightly charred manioke
steaming from the umu pit
of our neighbour across the dirt road
exchanged with a plate of my mother’s
Japanese cooking
around 12ish on a Sunday afternoon.
Home to me was
climbing up the nonu tree
to pick young nonu buds and soft leaves
for my baby niece’s vai pala
that my older cousin would crush
in a cloth of questionable cleanliness
and squeeze droplets into the screaming baby’s
toothless little mouth.
Home to me was
A big pot of too-sweet topai for breakfast
And an even bigger pot of chicken noodles for dinner
To feed my father’s extended, extended, extended family
When they’d come to visit from the islands.
Home to me was
my mum’s secret delight
as the guests slowly left
and she cooks her Japanese rice
no more sugar, no more coconut
no more soupy, runny rice.
Home to me was
cleaning my father and grandfather’s graves
at Makamaka cemetery.
piling sand and rocks and coral,
cutting grass and pulling weeds
round Father’s day and Christmas
and
whenever we felt guilty
that the grass is overgrown.
Home to me was
Hearing the clang of hammers on
Rusted metal sheet roofs
Slammed onto windows.
When the rain showered warm
Then it poured down cold
Hearing on the radio it was a
Category 3,4,5 tropical cyclones now
It’s gotten stronger every year.
Home.
Home to me is nostalgia.
Bits of my childhood.
Bits of my past.
Maybe that’s why I yearned for home.
Home is a distant past.
Home is a memory.