Those were some of the things I thought about this morning as I sat on the warm rocks, gazing up the river. The flax bushes and reeds of the swamp glowed in the early sun. A single hawk drifted above them. Marama and Marika say it keeps watch. Their Nana Whina reckons that as long as a hawk — a kahu — is guarding the swamp, it’ll be safe.

There’s going to be some digging at the swamp by a university group. They’ll see if there’s any signs of things hidden there. There was another excavation that Great-grandad Matiu helped with, years and years ago, but they didn’t find anything.

Now a lot of people from the marae are exploring their own past, wanting to make sure their stories are told properly. Great-uncle Tipene’s wife, my Great-auntie Pania, is one. There were meetings on the marae, lots of talk. Grandad Alan and Nana Beth went along; Grandad took the wooden stick that Tipene had carved for him. Nana says he held it while he spoke, and his friend was so pleased. Grandad said the swamp was one of the taonga — the treasures — of the land, and he would support whatever the marae decided. So yeah, there’s going to be another excavation, starting next month.

I had this really strange thought while I was sitting gazing at the swamp. I was pretty tired, like I’ve been for the past couple of weeks, and a bit dreamy, I suppose.

Anyway, I started wondering: whose valley is this? Is it my valley? Somebody like Great-great-aunt Whina: was it her valley? Is it Tipene and Pania’s? Or Aggie’s, after whom I’m named?

I’d wondered about something like it before, when I was in the cemetery, reading all those names from years and years back. Did those people ever stand by the river, and look around like me, and think ‘This is my place. I belong to it; it belongs to me’? I guess they must have — though some of them were guys, so they probably didn’t do much thinking.

If they did, they were right. They and Waimoana belonged to each other while they were alive. Then the valley belonged to those who came after them, and the ones who came after that. It belongs to everybody, and to nobody.

Pretty amazing, eh? The idea, I mean, not my thinking. It’s the sort of thing I’d like to write about, when I’m a bit older.

My bum was getting sore from all the sitting and thinking. I’ve got a skinny bum; girls at high school say they wish they were as slim as me. Then they remember the leukaemia; they go red and don’t know what to say. I just laugh.