I often think of dead people.
Maybe that’s because death has been a part of my life since my mom died when I was 4.
At that time, over 60 years ago, no one wanted to talk about that young mother of three or her death from asthma because it was too sad and raw, and as a child I quickly learned not to ask.
My sister and I were thrilled to discover a box of Mom’s old high heels in the shed, but she doesn’t remember the intrigue of the purple halterneck ball gown I found tucked away in a corner of the closet in our bedroom. Somehow these items had escaped the post-death cull, which would have been the norm.
I marveled at the grace of Mommy’s feet compared to mine and wondered when she’d worn the dress. I remember Dad’s dancing being more shuffling (and not the soft-shoe kind) than sliding and it was hard to imagine a whirl across the dance floor with him would have had much romance.
All these years later, I like to think that many of us have become more comfortable talking about the dead, honoring them and the impact they have made on us, whether, as Elizabeth Yates would say, they are family or be friendship-wide.
I would be shocked if any of my descendants were too afraid to talk about their late father or ask questions about him for fear it would upset me. For me, it’s only through talking like that and reminiscing that someone can live on in our hearts and minds.
And for those who aren’t quite there yet, the Matariki celebration is a gift, with some of the tradition looking back on those who passed away in the past year. A special time for such reflection in the sluggishness of winter seems so appropriate, rather than trying to fit it in on December 31, when we are recovering from the hectic build-up to Christmas and the close of summer vacation.
I spent some time that evening thinking about the people I had known who had passed away over the year or loved by people I know and love. The total was 15, which may be a reflection of my age. Among them were two people who took their own lives, some who fell far short of their twenty-three years, those who had been tormented by illness, and others who will be forever remembered for their willing smiles and joie de vivre. One of them was a cousin on my father’s side. He was part of a group of cousins much older than me. That age difference, and the fact that we rarely saw some of them, added to their mystique and glamour, and it was hard for me to shake in awe long after growing up myself.
There may have been no finesse in my memory, in my small kitchen with its increasing number of dirty dishes as soup production progressed, but there was something about doing so as I comfort kai with love that seemed good and grounding.
Forearm deep in the washing-up water, I thought about the coming year and the journey my youngest grandchild will make to meet her other grandmother, half a world away. I imagined the excitement of that Babicka holding her only grandchild for the first time. It’s hard not to worry about the small family heading to Central Europe as the war in Ukraine continues, but don’t let that spoil the joy.
On Friday I admired the sunrise and sunset, although it was a step too far to expect to find the constellation Matariki. The only thing I can ever confidently identify in the night sky is the moon.
I am amazed at the pride I feel on this national holiday. At the moment it is still without the commercial baggage of Christmas and Easter and escaping the politics of Waitangi Day. I’ve always struggled with Anzac Day, born as it was out of a pointless war that we should never have gotten involved in. I look forward to Matariki developing into a memorable event in my whanau’s calendar in the future.
PS A few weeks before Matariki I received a treasure from Mom’s sister – a picture of Mom and Dad at a ball in their courtship days. Like me, Mom wasn’t good at paying attention to the photographer. There is a halter neck dress. I like to think it’s mauve.
– Elspeth McLean is a writer from Dunedin.