‘Now, I think,’ he said, ‘I could’ve stayed home, right then after the wedding and taken the risk that my wife was asking me to take.’ He paused. ‘So that he could see me there. Paa.’

‘He knew you’d return,’ I said. ‘Death, to Paa, was not much different to life. Time didn’t mean a lot. You would come during his lifetime, or you’d come later, but you would come. And in his manner of thinking, you were already home because your grandchildren were there. You are your grandchildren. They are you. And the land waits. “Toitū te whenua, whatungarongaro he tāngata”, as they say.’

We’d been living there for about three months, when Chappy said he wanted to give up his apartment and come and live with us until he could return to New Zealand ‘so we can all cook together’. It made sense, and of course he would’ve known this would help us out financially as well.

It was a great get-together when Oriwia came. I’d never seen her so relaxed. One night, when we were fooling around, Chappy stood with his eyes phasing to three quarters and announced he was going to grow flowers. Another string on the guitar pinged. You can’t eat flowers, I thought, as I gave up on the now three-stringed guitar. I was putting it away when Oriwia announced she wanted to get married again. Hey. It took me a moment to catch on. Floored me. Well, I was drunk anyway. It all ended in a wedding.

About a year after Chappy and Oriwia returned to New Zealand, we thought of giving up the old house, believing that a convenient apartment might be more comfortable for Ela, but Ela didn’t want to move. It proved to be the right decision to remain where we were because it meant there was plenty of room for family coming to stay. Eric and Mele, Lani and Binnie arrived at different times to help look after her. Others came and went through open doors, relieving us of cooking and washing and shopping so that we could care for Ela in the final stages of her illness (which I would’ve taken for my own if it were possible. Let me have it instead. Let me have it was my unanswered plea to the unknown).

At the last I had to give her permission. ‘It has to be you,’ my mother-in-law said. So I did. I gave it. ‘You have to go now, my sweetheart,’ I said to Ela. ‘It’s all right. We’re all here, but we have to let you go.’ In the room with me were Ma, Malia, Eric and Lani. There were others in the house, asleep, or just waiting.

Though Ela gave no sign, I know she heard me because soon after that she died.